Eye of the Needle
by TheKingsofHell
Summary: Murron Guthrie makes Crowley, King of the Crossroads, her dying wish. Set between season five and six.
1. Prologue

Prologue

So, this was it. The final straw.

Murron Guthrie gripped the rough wooden box between her shaking hands, her eyes staring dumbly down at the center of the old dirt crossroads beneath her bare feet. The balmy summer breeze flapped the hem of her light cotton skirt around her ankles, snapping like a flag at sea. Her copper-colored hair struggled to unbind itself from the messy bun she'd hastily put it in. With an intensity she'd never have imagined a year prior, she felt these simple things as though it were for the last time. Perhaps it was. Instinctively, she pressed a hand to her chest where the unseen tumor had settled deep inside her flesh. Inoperable. Stage four. These facts rattled around in her head as she continued to stare at the ground.

This was the only way left to her. She had to do it. If she had to spend the final year of her life dreading the end, she wasn't going to do it alone.

Crouching, Murron dug at the pebbly dirt with both hands, having set the box to the side to do so. When she'd managed a deep enough crevice, she tucked the box into the hole and swept the soil over it, patting it securely. She knew she was attempting to catch an awfully big fish, but for what she wanted, she needed the biggest one available. The box contained all of the necessary ingredients for summoning a crossroads demon, plus one more: a vial of Glencraig scotch, aged thirty years. Ideal for catching a king.

Murron rose to her feet again, just as the shuffle of gravel sounded behind her. She turned on the spot, a small, self-congratulatory smile flickering on her lips. "Crowley, I presume?" she offered by way of greeting.

"You've done your homework, witch," Crowley remarked in turn, the vial of scotch appearing in his hand. "I normally only come to those with major deals, not commoners like yourself. However, I couldn't resist a free drink, now could I?" He tipped the vial towards her in salute, uncorked it, and upended the contents into his mouth. His eyes closed in pleasure as he swallowed the amber liquid, and Murron knew she'd done the right thing by including it. Smoothing a demon's feathers at the beginning of any deal was simple wisdom, yet she knew it was one her craft sisters and brothers often neglected. Fortunately, her arrogance only went so far; any further and this entire thing could easily turn on her in an instant.

Crowley gestured and the vial disappeared into thin air. He turned his green eyes to her, a salesman's smile on his thin lips. "What can I do for you, then?" he asked conversationally. "Aside from the obvious."

"Yes, aside from that," Murron agreed, taking a small step closer to him. "I don't know how appealing this deal will seem to you, but I trust you'll hear me out regardless?"

"I wouldn't suggest using that word lightly," Crowley advised. "But yes, I will hear you out."

"I'm dying."

"My sympathies."

"This isn't about saving my life for ten years; it's about making my last year on Earth less miserable."

"All right. How?"

Murron took a deep breath, steadying herself for the next words. "I want you to stay with me for a year."

"I'm sorry?" Crowley narrowed his eyes at her dubiously. Murron repeated herself. The demon's incredulous expression turned genuinely bemused. "Look," he began after a moment's consideration, "I know I'm desperately charming and fantastic to look at to boot, but I'm not on the table. Ever."

"Even if I'm offering my soul after only one tiny year instead of ten?" Murron pressed. Crowley's brows arched dramatically in response. "I'm not asking you to do anything beyond gracing me with your presence once in awhile. I'm looking for the company, nothing more."

"Get a dog, then."

"I'm dying in a year, with or without this deal. At least at the end, I'll know where I'm going and I won't have left anything behind."

"No family? Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Fuck buddy?"

"None of the above."

"Why me, then?"

"Because I want you."

Crowley shook his head somewhat haltingly, expression contorting into one of impatience. "I just said I'm not for the having; what part of that are you not grasping?"

"I suppose all of it because I'm not changing my mind. You can either mark me down as one of yours a year from now, or not take the deal at all. I obviously can't force you. The longer we debate it, the more ridiculous it'll sound. I can't give you any other reason than that I want your company and no one else's." Murron shrugged carelessly, suddenly indifferent to the situation. "Really, what's one year to someone who lives forever?"

"You'd be surprised," Crowley remarked mildly, fingering the cuffs of his wool coat methodically. He threw his hands out, then let them fall back against his thighs with a muffled clap. "Fine. This could be interesting. Your soul, after one year, for the pleasure of my esteemed company. Not the strangest deal I've made, but it's definitely up there."

Murron couldn't help smiling. She'd gone out on a huge limb here, and a shaky, about-to-snap limb at that. But it had worked. She'd worry about the rest of it later. All good things, all in good time.

These thoughts moved through her mind as Crowley drew near, one hand extended to capture the back of her head and bring her face in for the sealing kiss. It tingled against her lips, the tingle turning into a kind of cold burn that extended from her face to her toes. She held the kiss as long as he did, surprised at the pleasure the intimate contact provided. Had it really been so long for her that she was getting lightheaded from a demon's touch?

The sensation disappeared when Crowley drew away and favored her with a smug grin. "Enjoyed that, did you?" he teased. Murron self-consciously slid her fingers across her lips, mutely hating herself a little for still feeling it. Crowley chuckled, a husky sound heavy with his accent. "It's all right, darling," the demon crooned, "everyone always does."

Murron chose to ignore the jab. "What happens now?" she asked. Crowley shrugged.

"That's up to you, I think," he replied casually. "This is your deal. For the times I'm not preoccupied buying and selling human souls, I'll be with you. I do have to warn you, though: I'm an expensive date."

"Starting to realize that," Murron couldn't help the small laugh that escaped her lips. "If you're interested, the rest of the scotch is at my place."

"Fast piece, aren't you?" Crowley returned cheekily, eyeing her with a mischievous glance. "But if you're offering." He extended his hand to her with remarkable grace. She accepted it, his fingers closing over hers. He winked briefly, snapped the fingers of his free hand, and the crossroads scene vanished from sight.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

The following morning after the crossroads deal found Murron sitting at her kitchen nook, a tea service between her and the demon now sharing her home. Crowley spent a few moments while Murron prepared the tea, looking about himself at the rather cozy kitchen as if still surprised to find himself there. Murron, seemingly attached to her Celtic heritage, had numerous knick-knackery around the house, all bearing some form of Scottish symbolism. Truth be told, the sight of them made Crowley slightly less uncomfortable, despite swearing to have no lingering attachment to the land of his birth.

He'd taken the liberty of exploring the rest of the small cottage-esque house after Murron had gone to bed the night before. The deal had worn her out, apparently, and Crowley had been left to amuse himself. Had he not been hiding out from Lucifer's armies, he would never have been caught dead (or whatever term applied in a demon's case) staying in such a small, whimisically-decorated house with a human woman, witch or not. As it was, it was rather convenient that she'd made him the reward in her deal; no one would ever think to look for him here.

Still, he thought, jabbing a finger into one of the woolly lamb salt and pepper shakers and grimacing in mild disgust, he could've made a deal with someone with more taste. His grimace shifted quickly to a smile of simpering complaisance when Murron set a china cup and saucer in front of him. When he just stared down at it, she eyed him quizzically.

"You can eat and drink, obviously?"

Crowley shrugged his brows and rested his chin in his palm, still staring down at the pert teacup patterned in delicate roses. "I can, it's just...I'm not really a tea drinker," he ended the sentence with a little displeased whine. Murron blinked slowly at him.

"Should I just get the Craig, then?"

"Yes, that would be lovely, thank you," Crowley beamed over at her. He slid the cup and saucer from him with a finger while she got up and retrieved the bottle of scotch from the living room. He accepted it with a murmured thank you, upended the tea into the sink behind him, swished the remains out with a napkin, then filled it with the drink. Then, lifting the cup and saucer, he teasingly stuck out his pinkie finger and gave her a gracious nod before taking an exaggeratedly haughty sip.

Murron laughed despite herself. It was so comically undemonlike she couldn't help it. It seemed almost impossible that he'd been the smooth-talking demon from just the night before; what had changed?

"Something on your mind?" Crowley asked when she'd been silent for awhile.

"Yeah. Why are you so...nice? I mean, it doesn't seem likely. If that makes any sense."

"Demon deals change things sometimes. Or," he added with a one-sided shrug, "I don't see the point in being a crabby bastard while I'm here. You're giving up your soul after a year rather than ten; the least I can do is try to be agreeable. Just don't think you can take advantage of it, understand?"

"I couldn't think of how I'd do that, to be honest," Murron admitted, mirroring his shrug. "I wasn't lying when I said I just wanted the company. I know," she added when Crowley opened his mouth to speak, "I could've had a dog or wished for some pretty boy to be my love slave for a year, but..."

"But that wouldn't have been good enough?" Crowley offered. Murron shook her head, hiding her face in her teacup as she took a sip. "Can't blame you there. I am awfully interesting."

"Starting to realize that."

"You do know that I don't usually show up at a normal crossroads deal, yeah?" Crowley said after another silence passed between them. "Normally, there's this whole elaborate shebang to get me to go anywhere."

"Then why'd you bother at all?"

"Curiousity. Nothing tempts a demon more than curiousity. And souls, of course. The Craig didn't hurt, either," Crowley twirled the mostly-empty bottle in a lazy half-circle for emphasis. "How'd you know I liked this, though?"

"Like you said, I'd done my homework," Murron replied quietly, refusing to reveal more than that. Crowley squinted at her briefly. When she didn't rise to the challenge in his eyes, he shrugged again.

"Keep it to yourself, then, I don't care," he conceded, off-handedly. "Got me a free drink out of the deal. Who am I to complain." With that statement, he emptied the remainder of the bottle into his teacup, gave her another little salute with it, and polished if off. "You don't strike me as the typical, run-of-the-mill wannabe Hell's whore - if you'll pardon the expression; why get into it?"

Murron suspected he was making conversation, or he was still trying to weedle her reasoning behind asking specifically for him. Fine, she'd play along. "It's stupid, really. When I found out I was dying, I started looking up alternative methods. Herbalism, things like that. Well, one day, I was in the bookstore, browsing the new age section, and happened across a dictionary of magical herbs. When I was looking through it, another woman came up to me and started talking her head off about the benefits of color healing, crystal therapy, yadda yadda yadda. Having just been told I was going to die, I was too tired to really tell her to go away.

"Eventually, we drifted over to the little cafe all of these bookstores have nowadays and she continued to tell me about different methods of healing. It was pretty innocent at first, and maybe it was my own curiousity to find an easy way out that got me into the supposed 'dark stuff'. Long story short, before I knew it, I was summoning spirits and lesser demons. I'd gotten in touch with other witches, ones who were more experienced than I, and yes, that's how I found out about you. How if anyone was going to give me what I wanted, it would have to be you.

"I would have been content to ask for a perfect boytoy at first. Then I started to hear stories of your previous meetings. I heard things. Things that made me curious." Here Murron paused, suddenly aware of the heat in her cheeks as she recalled the real reasons behind wanting the Crossroads King and no one else. Crowley's piercing gaze bore into her, the barest hint of a smile on his face. He wanted the flattery, however extreme. She just wasn't sure she wanted to give it to him. Not yet.

Regaining what poise was left to her, Murron shifted in her chair and lifted her chin proudly. "Regardless. It was either you or nothing."

"Clearly," Crowley murmured, the smile reaching his eyes and making them appear almost kind. "And now that you have me, what did you plan on doing with me, then?"The smile turned teasing. Murron's return smile was wry.

"Clearly, I can't do whatever I want since you just said -" she started matter-of-factly, and not without a little sass, when he gestured for her to be still.

"You ruin the joke," Crowley said loftily and started up from the small table. Murron watched him move into the living room and disappear from her immediate line of sight as he passed further in. She remained in her seat, listening to him move about with the same kind of slow deliberation as someone in a museum.

She really had no idea what to do with him now that he was there. What if her coven sisters came calling? Would they recognise him? Would he pop in and out of the house whenever it suited him? Would she go to bed one night with him out of the house, only to be woken up by his sudden appearance in her bedroom? The thought made her instinctively clutch at her shirtfront modestly and make a small gasping noise.

Crowley's head appeared around the doorframe, eyes narrowed and searching the kitchen for what could've made her react like that. "Problems?" he inquired after a moment. Murron shook her head, perhaps a little too quickly. He didn't appear convinced, but said nothing, and ducked out of sight again.

"So what do you do when you're not making deals?" Murron called out when her heart and mind had stopped racing. She heard Crowley lift something from a shelf, make a wondering noise at it, then replied:

"Things of a varying nature. I will eventually have to leave here for awhile."

"Do you have a...home?"

"I have a house, yes. It's well-guarded, so it's not like I have to be there every second of every day."

"But you'll have to go back eventually?"

Crowley appeared in the doorway again, this time rolling his back casually against the frame until he was in the kitchen again. He had his hands in his trouser pockets and was looking down at her with the same squinty curiousity he'd leveled at her at the crossroads. "For someone who asked for me specifically, you're certainly in a hurry to get rid of me."

Murron gave him an exasperated look. "That's not what I meant. I was just sitting here thinking about how I hadn't entirely considered what it would be like living with a demon for a year. Will you be popping in and out all the time, sneaking up on me for your own amusement, just to watch me jump out of my skin?" She didn't want to mention the bit about her bedroom; better to not give him any ideas.

"Common pranks aren't really my thing," Crowley assured her mildly. "You'll know when I'm around. Haven't you picked up on it yet?"

"I don't think so...?"

In response, Crowley drew his suit jacket off and dropped it across her shoulders. Immediately, a wave of sulfur swept over her, coupled with the curious scent of good cigars and smooth scotch. Yes, the Crossroad King's scent was unmistakeable. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, though the sulfur did slightly overpower the other smells.

"Yes. That is a little hard to miss," Murron conceded as she handed his jacket back to him. He accepted it and draped it over one arm. Without it, he appeared rather small, as though it had added a couple inches to his shoulders. Looking at him now, she realized he was just an average-sized man, narrow in the shoulders, with the barest sugesttion of a trim waist. Any weight he possessed he carried in the front, leaving his overall silhouette rather svelte. His legs were harder to discern through his trousers, however well-tailored they were. Though from the cut, and if she absolutely had to guess, they appeared fairly slim. All in all, he was a fine-looking man. Or his meat-suit was.

"Where did you get that body?" Murron asked without thinking. Crowley grinned, taking the question the only way he cared to. Murron closed her eyes and sighed inwardly. "You know what I mean."

"Moderately successful literary agent from New York," Crowley's response was practiced, rolling off his tongue with careless precision. "I've had it for awhile."

"What's 'awhile' to a demon?"

"Couple decades." Crowley spread his arms slightly and looked down at himself. "I think he was someone in the sixties or seventies."

"Did he make a demon deal, too?"

"No, I had him killed so I could take the body. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone with this accent in America and not have it be some uneducated bastard? Quite hard."

"Can't say I've ever noticed. Why would that be important?"

"All in good time, darling, all in good time," Crowley replied mysteriously. "You've got a year with me; no sense in spoiling things so early in the game."

"No, perhaps not," Murron agreed with a small half-smile, oddly comforted by the unspoken promise he'd share more with her someday. Crowley echoed the expression as the first genuinely comfortable silence passed between them.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

One week passed into two, then three, and eventually, a full month had flown by. Murron no longer questioned Crowley's decision to stay with her; he never pressed her for hers. Between them, a strange, almost domestic, co-habitation had sprung up: Crowley, when he was present, would have a cup of Murron's favorite tea waiting for her on the kitchen table every morning, never once taking credit for it. Murron, for her part, never openly thanked him or brought attention to it. She accepted it as a matter-of-fact and the two curious housemates went through their respective days without once mentioning the small favors they both bestowed on the other.

After Crowley had finished the original bottle of Glencraig, Murron had bought him a new one, leaving it casually on the reading table beside the easy chair he'd come to favor, complete with glass. Every evening, the contents of the bottle would steadily go down; she smiled to see it, but again, never said anything about it.

The only raincloud on this otherwise peaceful atmosphere were Murron's continuing chemotherapy treatments. They left her exhausted and wanting only her bed. She'd return home from them, her spirits dragging along with her "survival" totebag, not even able to cast the quiet demon in her living room a hello. The first handful of times this happened, Crowley left her alone. For awhile, this was preferrable. It wasn't until the evening she came home looking worse than ever that Crowley followed her upstairs.

He watched her fumble into her comfortable nightclothes from the doorway, as silent as a ghost. She seemed completely oblivious to his presence, for she never once turned or said a word, only tumbled into bed with a grateful sigh and was asleep within minutes. Crowley hovered at the threshold for a moment, as if considering his next move, then walked over to the bedside.

It wouldn't be the first time he'd tweaked a contract for one of his clients. Normally, it would always be in his favor, as he liked it. However, something about seeing her struggle through what he perceived as a pointless battle left him wanting. It was within his power to make her well again, with or without her consent. That wasn't always needed; a shift here, a rewording there, and he could have her waking up feeling as though she'd been given a new body. It never once occurred to him to wait for her to wake up, to offer her opinion on the matter. Why should it? He had the power and if there was one thing Crowley loved exercising, it was that.

He placed the tips of two fingers at the center of her forehead, focusing on the part of her soul contract that would allow her recovery. She winced in her sleep as the change swept over her. Soon, this pain subsided and her face took on a healthy glow, her eyes ceasing their restless movement beneath their lids. Her breathing became steady and even, the sleep of those untouched by disease. Crowley smiled down at her, pleased with his handiwork. He looked forward to her surprise in the morning. He'd deny everything, of course, as he always did whenever he graced her with his favors.

Admittedly, he didn't see the point in having to spend a year with a sick person. Yeah, he'd known she was dying long before she said anything, and had anticipated the usual rigmarole about being healed, yadda yadda yadda. Her true request had thrown him for a dozen loops, especially when it didn't include her health. Well, he wasn't in the market to be a nursemaid. If he was going to sacrifice a year of his life, he would do so on his terms. He'd rather a whole companion than one who collapsed three or four times out of every week. He didn't view his decision to heal her as altruistic at all: he was serving his own needs, as usual.

It was these words that accompanied him back downstairs, satisfied to spend the remainder of the night channel-surfing and polishing off the rest of his scotch.

Murron woke the next morning and immediately felt something was..._off_.

She sat up in bed abruptly, eyes scanning the room for - she couldn't be sure what. She just felt, somewhere inside, that something had changed since the night before. She scratched at her right forearm absently, still looking about her. The faint sound of the TV drifted up from the living room; Crowley was still home. That same feeling of 'different' prodded her to get out of bed and go see the Crossroads King.

Murron hurried down the stairs, hastily yanking her robe on in the process. When she reached the bottom landing, Crowley looked up at her from his spot in the easy chair. She stared at him intensely, certain he'd done something. They locked eyes for a long moment, Murron debating whether or not to voice her suspicions. Crowley seemed unaffected, his usual small, self-satisfied smile curling his lips. His brows lifted as if to encourage her to speak. Murron's eyelids twitched and she continued down the stairs, choosing to hold her tongue at this time.

She felt his eyes on her as she moved into the kitchen. She paced the linoleum floor nervously, rapping one fisted hand against her open palm in a staccato duet with her racing thoughts. She paused in the center of the kitchen, her eyes falling on the rose teacup that always waited for her, waiting for her now on the table. Her nerves softened, losing their tension, as she stared down at that simple piece of china, the scent of it filling the room, telling her it was her favorite, as it always had been. If Crowley had done something for her, something to her health, then she would accept it with the same quiet grace she did her morning tea. Demons weren't exactly known for their generousity; calling him out on it would be ungrateful. She hadn't insisted on her health being thrown into the deal, but she wasn't going to argue against it either.

The click of Crowley's Italian leather shoes on the kitchen floor drew Murron's attention from the teacup. She slowly raised her eyes to his, unsure of the tears that burned in them. His smile had lost its self-satisfied curve, replaced instead with the softest, kindest one she'd seen on him yet. Even his eyes had lost their sharpness, turning from stark green to a soothing warm emerald. Unsteadily at first, Murron returned the smile, the same comfortable silence that had become so commonplace stretching between them.

Explaining to her doctors that she didn't want anymore chemo had been a trial Murron hadn't been expecting. Crowley remained in his now favorite chair, absently swirling the amber liquid around in its glass as she marched up and down the living room carpet, cellphone glued to her ear.

"I swear I'm not feeling suicidal," Murron insisted into the phone. "I just don't need it anymore. I can't explain it any better than that." A pause as she listened to the other end. Her expression shifted from exasperated to annoyed to intensely frustrated in the span of seconds. Crowley chuckled under his breath. "No, I promise, again, I am not trying to kill myself. I still only have a year. Yes, I'll still come in for routine checkups. It won't do any good, though! Okay. Okay. Fine. Yes. Thank you, doctor. Thank you." Murron snapped her phone shut with a heavy sigh and ran her fingers through her tangle of copper hair.

"Well done, Murron, well done," Crowley cooed. Murron's smile was wry.

"It's not like I could tell them what really happened, is it?" she pointed out, her smile turning kinder as she looked down at the demon. Crowley tipped his glass in response. She bit her bottom lip thoughtfully. "I don't know what to do with my health now. I've been mentally preparing for a long year of misery, tempered only by...well. You, I suppose."

Crowley eyed her sidelong, a twinkle brightening the green of his irises. "I would suggest you enjoy it. However you see fit."

Murron didn't respond straightaway, choosing instead to nibble on those words in her mind. The true reasoning behind the demon deal rose to the forefront of her memory; briefly, she debated revealing it to him. But no. It still struck even her as too foolish, maybe even a little arrogant. Pushing it from her, she brushed her hair back again with a resignated air. "What will you do?"

"Me? I do have to return to my house for a few things. I don't know how long I'll be gone."

"Well, you know where to find me."

"I do indeed," Crowley purred in reply, casting her the slyest wink. Before she'd thought it over, Murron had reached out and given his shoulder a playful push. He chuckled at her, seeming to not mind the familiar contact. This relaxed Murron further and she gave her own small laugh.

"If I can be slightly selfish here," she began, her voice low and bordering on shy, "do you think you could keep the visit home...short?"

"Are you suggesting you'd miss me?" Crowley pressed teasingly. She averted her face, ducking it against her shoulder. "I'll do my best to make it quick," he assured her after he'd enjoyed her embarrassment. "Demon dealings can be tricky things to time, however, so." He rose from the chair, one hand snaking into his trouser pocket with a limpid grace she couldn't help but notice. He drew close to her shoulder, a breath's distance between them as he finished his sentence, "Don't wait up, darling."

In the next instant, Murron realized she was alone. She'd never really been around when he'd disappeared; it was almost too abrupt to react to in time. Instead, she blinked, took a deep breath, and moved about the living room collecting the various things Crowley left around. The glass was still somewhat warm and carried that same scent of sulfur she'd actually gotten used to over the past month. She held the glass in her hand, letting the heat from his palm transfer into hers. She felt silly, but couldn't bring herself to put the glass in the sink.

She sank into what was now _his_ chair, fingers still wrapped around the glass, leaned back and closed her eyes, letting the lingering warmth there surround her.

Murron was jolted violently awake by a crash upstairs. She'd fallen asleep in Crowley's chair without realizing it, her hand still clutching his scotch glass. She looked up towards the ceiling; whatever had fallen had done so in her bedroom. Pushing herself from the chair hastily, Murron ran up the stairs two at a time and swung into her bedroom.

Crowley was gripping the edge of her bed, smoke rising from his shoulders; the stench of burning wood filled the room. His face was blackened in some spots and his forehead had been cut. Blood trickled down his cheek, gathering in the corner of his mouth so much that he had to spit it out a few times. He lifted his head towards Murron, who stood in the doorway with her hands clamped over her mouth. His lips twitched as though he would speak, a brutal, rasping cough coming out instead. Murron rushed to his side, sliding cross the carpet on her knees till she reached him. She supported him as best she could, still unable to ask the questions that burned in her mind. Crowley, still coughing, released the bed's edge and fell against her.

"Bastards - burned my house - !" he managed between harsh coughs. Murron processed this as she struggled to push him onto the bed. He hadn't said anything about being in trouble with anyone, not that he would have. Still, he'd come back to her instead of going somewhere else when in danger. She ignored the warm swelling in her heart, fearing it would cloud her judgment, and succeeded in getting Crowley on the bed. He didn't protest as she pulled his suit jacket off, smoke still wafting from the finely-made fabric. When she had him in his shirtsleeves, she looked down into his still-bloodied face.

"What can I do?" she asked quickly. Crowley waved a hand towards her, as if to put her from him. "Crowley, don't be a stubborn prick about this: what can I do?"

"Winchesters!" Crowley bit out. Murron's brow furrowed. "I have to - I have to go somewhere."

"Like hell you are!" Murron's voice was firm. "You're going to take a goddamn minute and recover!"

"Bloody hell, woman, I'm the king of the Crossroads - I'm a demon, what makes you think -"

"You're also seriously fucked up right now, in case the blood in your mouth wasn't your first clue!" Murron snapped, batting away his flailing attempts to move her aside and get up. "You might be a demon, but your meat-suit needs a minute to recover. There's no shame in it; take a moment, get your bearings back. In the meantime, let me clean you up and then you can do whatever the hell you want. I won't stop you."

This seemed to soothe Crowley's ruffled feathers; he stopped trying to sit up and flopped back against the bed gratefully. Murron gave him another long look, pressed her hand to his arm reassuringly, and got up to fetch the first aid kit from her bathroom. Crowley was still on his back, chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths as he forced his body to heal. She set to cleaning off his face, mopping up the sooty black along with the blood. He let her do what she needed to, all the while keeping his gaze averted from her face. Murron didn't bother talking as she continued her work.

The cut on his forehead was deep, but she could already see it beginning to patch itself. Whatever had attacked him had done so in an ambush; Crowley was far too clever and wily to be taken in any other way. She'd have to let him handle this on his own. It wasn't as though she could help; he would have refused her assistance, anyway.

After she'd finished, she asked in a low voice, "Who was it?"

"Demons," Crowley replied gruffly.

"Demons?" Murron echoed, puzzled. "Why would your own kind do this to you?"

"Demons are bastards, darling, remember? More than that, they're on the wrong side of the fence."

"Now you're just confusing me."

"Good. Our contract doesn't say a damn thing about my telling you anything."

"Don't be a bitch about this, Crowley. If demons are chasing you for whatever reason, I can do something."

Crowley laughed cruelly. "What? Haven't even been a witch for a full year; probably can't even do a simple summoning spell."

"Got you, didn't I?"

"Semantics."

"Have it your way -"

"I always do."

"- but I can protect the house at least. I know that much," Murron finished, ignoring his snide remark. Crowley turned his head to look at her.

"Sigils?" he prompted. She nodded. "They'd keep me out, too, you know."

"Now look who has no idea what they're talking about," Murron muttered, snapping the kit shut impatiently and rising. "I can make new sigils. It's not that hard. I can craft sigils that only allow you in, no one else."

Crowley let her see the admiration in his eyes as he sat up, body now fully recovered. "If you can do that, do it. In the meantime, I have to go bother some old friends of mine." In the next eyeblink, he was gone and Murron was alone.

She cast a hasty look around the room, pressed her lips together in a determined line, then hastened back downstairs.

She had work to do.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Over the course of the following day, every available surface in the house was covered in ancient texts, papers with incantations and practice sigils scribbled all over them, plus mortars and bottles of herbs, roots, and various types of dirt. Murron moved between these piles, gathering what necessary information and materials she could from each.

The actual sigil creation part was easy. It was amping them up that proved difficult. In some kind of bizarre hindsight, she'd kept the bloodied guaze she'd used to clean Crowley's face the night before; it was from these she obtained the strongest ingredient for the wards. Very little of the blood remained usable, having been tainted with ash, but with a little careful handling, she managed to salvage a tablespoon's worth.

This she added to the mortar already holding her own blood, as well as the yellow sulfuric powder Crowley always left in his wake. These personal touches would enhance the power of the sigils, as well as exclude Crowley from their effects. Once completed, she could use the mix as a kind of paint to seal doors, windows, and coat the ceilings from basement to attic with the sigil. The entire process would take a day to carry out, tested only when Crowley returned. The common warding symbols were placed "invisibly" with a salt mixture, those even these dictated that Crowley's energies be permitted within the house.

After she'd covered every important surface and portal with the charged sigil, Murron settled in for a potentially long wait for Crowley's return.

It wasn't until another day had passed that Crowley reappeared, his suit jacket torn at one shoulder and as dusty as if he'd been rolling on the ground. Murron had been in her room when she heard him cough from the living room; she couldn't remember a time when she'd raced down the stairs fast enough to almost launch herself off the landing. Crowley looked up at her with feigned surprise, patting the dust free from his jacket with such nonchalance you'd think he hadn't been in a potentially serious scuffle.

"Have I kept you waiting too long, darling?" he quipped cheerfully. "Good work, by the way." He gestured about the room, then towards the floor and ceilings. "Seems your little sigils have done their work nicely. How'd you manage it?"

Murron, desperately wanting to ask where he'd been, if he was okay, if more demons were on their way, stumbled further into the room to stand closer to him. She blinked a few times, clearing her head, then haltingly explained the sigil creation process, all the while eyeing his damaged suit. Crowley listened patiently, making appreciative noises where appropriate, then pat her on the shoulder.

"Again, very well done. I appreciate the effort. Now, I don't suppose you have a dry cleaner, do you? And maybe a good tailor? Demons sort of...ate mine," Crowley pulled at the torn sleeve gingerly, wincing when the seams popped further.

"I'm sorry - demons ate your tailor?" Murron repeated, thoroughly confused.

"Oh yeah, devoured the poor sod like a fat man at a buffet. Pity, really. He knew his way around a needle and thread." Crowley shrugged and dropped his overcoat onto his chair carelessly. "Good thing I thought to grab some other suits before they torched my house. Are they still -?" He looked at Murron questioningly. She nodded, absently pointing towards her room. "Cheers." Crowley disappeared; after a moment, she heard him moving around overhead.

He reappeared at her side about ten minutes later, dressed only in his shirtsleeves and trousers. His tie was missing, as were his shoes and socks. He looked, if she had to describe him, like someone who'd just come home from a very rough day at work and wanted only to relax. Perhaps that was the truth, for Crowley dropped into his chair with an exhausted grunt and reached for his bottle of Craig. He tipped the meager amount into his glass and, scowling darkly into it, muttered something about needing a new bottle soon.

Murron went to perch on the chair arm wordlessly, leaning against the back of the plush recliner on an angle so her shoulder was just brushing the side of his head. He didn't shift out of her way, seeming to be perfectly fine with the contact. He might be calm and collected as anything, but the electric sensation that shot up Murron's arm was very difficult to ignore. The silence continued unbroken for almost a solid fifteen minutes, ending when Murron said, "I was worried about you."

"Well, as you can see, I'm just fine."

Murron shifted uneasily on the chair arm, crossing her arms over her chest. "So, coming home all banged up twice -"

"I wasn't bleeding this time; not even my blood," Crowley interjected, self-consciously swiping at his clean face as though the splatters remained. Murron continued.

"- is your idea of 'fine'?"

"Yes, it is, actually. I've gotten myself out of worse scrapes, darling, so you needn't worry about me," he replied conversationally. When she repositioned herself again on the arm, he glanced up at her sidelong. "If that's so unpleasant, you could always just sit in my lap." He pat his thigh invitingly, casting a devilish grin her way. Murron gave him a slow, deadpan look. "No? Your loss, then." Crowley drained his glass, plunked it back on the side table, then reached for the remote.

Murron was faster: she snatched the remote from its place on the table and held it out of his reach. "You'll have to forgive me for worrying about my friend when he's clearly in danger," she snapped. Crowley, fingers still extended to grip the remote, flexed them in a kind of anxious rhythm to hear himself referred to as a 'friend'. "Because I sure as hell don't make it a habit of covering my house in protective sigils so said friend can have a safe haven when demons are trying to roast him alive."

Crowley looked down, his gaze distant. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For worrying." He turned in the chair to meet her glare. Something she couldn't describe shone in his eyes, but still it gave her pause. She relaxed her defiant posture, melting against the chair's back and consequently his shoulder as he continued. "I'm kind of in a rough spot now, as you've no doubt surmised. I don't really have any allies. The allies I have need to be convinced repeatedly of my intentions, that I'm not just messing around with them. Even then, they don't trust me completely. Can't blame them, really. I wouldn't trust me as far as I could throw me." He laughed, the sound weak and self-deprecating. "It's bloody amazing, how quickly demons turn on people. I'm just a defunct Crossroads King at this point. Whatever prestige I might have held before has been snuffed out, leaving me the most wanted man in Heaven, Hell, and on Earth. So thank you, for what it's worth."

Murron, stunned into silence by this heartfelt confession, could only stare down at him open-mouthed. He placed a finger beneath her chin and gently closed her mouth. The touch lasted a fraction of a second too long for a careless gesture, and when he lowered his hand, Murron felt the separation of his skin from hers as though he'd just disappeared altogether. But no, he was still sitting there, in the chair that used to belong to her late father, feet bare on the worn blue carpet of her living room, and with such a grateful look in his eyes she felt her breath catch. She wanted to say "You're welcome" as though it had been nothing at all for her to reinvent sigil creation, to plaster her windows, walls, and ceilings with them so he'd be safe, to make light of the entire situation. But she couldn't. All she could do was sit there and feel the wonder at what she'd let into her life, what she'd _sold her soul for_, sitting right there, plain as day and as comfortable as if he were still in his own home. So she did the next best thing: she smiled. She didn't care if her heart was in her eyes at that moment because part of her wanted him to see it, to see the gratitude at his accepting her deal and trusting her to keep his enemies from him so long as he remained beneath her roof.

But what about when that year was over? Her smile fell. "What will happen to you?" she asked, a tremble in her voice. The mood of the room darkened slightly as his brows drew together over his large green eyes, looking down so that his gaze was hidden from her.

"With any luck, all of this will have blown over long before that." His eyes lifted to meet hers again and there a secret knowing in them. He knew, like he knew a lot of other things about her when she let her thoughts rise to the surface, that she was thinking of the next eleven months. He understood she wanted to know how his being hunted would affect it. If it would separate them again. If he'd come back bruised, battered, or worse: wouldn't come back at all. It had been a very long time since she'd formed this kind of close connection with anyone; she wasn't keen on losing his companionship. He knew and he didn't mock her for it.

"You really believe that?" she asked.

"I do." The absolute confidence in his voice gave her further calm. "I will have to be in it again and very soon. I'm also very focused on making sure my ass gets out of it alive, so," he smiled, "don't worry so much, yeah?"

"No promises, but I'll try," Murron managed, the weariness of her two days' worth of magical working and worrying about him finally hitting her. It was only the early afternoon, but she desperately wanted to sleep for a week. Finally reassured of his safety, at least for a little while, she got up from the chair's arm and announced she was going to bed. At the foot of the stairs, she turned back to him and asked, "Will you be here?"

"You're already stuck with me for a year, darling. What do you think?" Crowley teased, a wide grin changing the entire landscape of his face with such brilliance she couldn't help returning it. Further assured, she bid him a soft goodnight and went up.

With demons on his tail now, Crowley's absences became fewer and fewer. Murron, by proxy, had grown equally wary of leaving the house, despite not having anything to really worry about. In response to this, Crowley took it upon himself to further her magical education. He told her of hex bags: how to make them, how they worked, what they worked against, everything he could think of to soothe her anxiety. Her spells of choice had always been defensive, but now she needed to up her offense if she expected to continue living with Crowley.

As an added bit of security, Crowley produced a cord where an ancient coin hung. "This is a tracking coin," he explained as he slipped it over her head, "With it, I can keep an eye on your whereabouts. I don't expect you'll be especially targeted as no one knows where I am, but better safe than sorry."

Murron touched the coin gingerly. "But how will you know if I'm in danger? Does it tell you that?"

Crowley nodded. "It picks up sound as well. One way, but I would be able to hear you if you were in trouble."

"And what would happen then?" Murron pressed.

"What do you think?" Crowley smiled. "Consider it my tit for your tat. You've redecorated in order to keep me safe. I might as well do the same."

"But wouldn't exposing yourself like that leave you vulnerable?"

"Not if they don't see me. Or if it isn't even me, for that matter."

"You sure do enjoy confusing me, don't you?"

"Highlight of my day, darling. But no, there is one who's still on my side," Crowley explained. "You won't be able to see him, but if demons try to get you, they'll definitely know what's what."

"Who's 'him'?"

"Nevermind that. Just know you'll be fine," Crowley dismissed her curiousity with a careless wave of his hand. Murron narrowed her eyes a bit, still very puzzled by his reluctance. Still, she knew she wouldn't be able to get it out of him. Better to just let it lie and be grateful.

"Thank you," she said after a moment. "I'm still a little worried, though."

"There's really no reason to be," Crowley pointed out. "No one that matters knows I'm here and you don't seem to get out much. If you keep to yourself when you do go out, it should be perfectly fine."

"If you're so sure it'll be fine, why give me this, then?" Murron challenged, lifting the coin from her neck. Crowley smirked. "Okay, okay, I can see you're reaching the end of your tether here. I'll stop asking questions and just say thank you again. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Crowley replied dryly. He settled down in his chair, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. Murron studied him, a pensive frown on her face.

"Do demons sleep?" she asked. Crowley cracked one eye open.

"Sometimes. Jumped up human souls, really, demons. Still plagued with all of the usual appetites: hunger, lust, etcetera," he twirled his hand lazily. "Sleep can be among these, but few of us actually bother with the ritual of it."

"Do you?"

"Are you asking me to sleep with you?" he quirked a playful eyebrow at her, biting the tip of his tongue in an impish fashion. Murron turned her head from him and clicked her tongue impatiently; he laughed. "Yes, sometimes. And given that I'm more or less housebound, I might as well do it more often. Like right now, if you don't mind." The foot rest extended as he closed his eyes again, shutting her and her questions out.

He opened them again when he felt something light cover his lower body: A quilt had been placed across his lap. He looked up in time to see Murron ascending the stairs, a content smile on her face.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Even with her growing anxiety, Murron knew she wouldn't be able to remain cooped up in the house forever. The pantry was growing bare, and while Crowley didn't seem to need to eat, she certainly did.

Crowley watched as she moved about the kitchen, a notepad in one hand, taking stock of what she needed. "I'll keep it brief," she told him, squeezing behind his chair to check the dish soap levels. "I'm sure you'll be fine here by yourself, but..."

"You'll worry anyway, I know," Crowley finished for her. "Honestly, darling, you really don't have to shut yourself up for my sake. I have every intention of getting out there again; you should, too. You've got the coin, I've got me: no reason why everything should be put on hold."

"Noooo, I don't think you understand," Murron laughed nervously, scooting away from the sink to the fridge. "I've never had to deal with demons that weren't contained in circles before; I don't want to invite trouble."

"Little late for that, don't you think?" Crowley gestured at himself. Murron cast him an annoyed glance over her shoulder. "Just stating the obvious," he remarked innocently.

"I'm very aware of the _obvious_, thank you," Murron informed him, mirroring his accent at 'obvious'. This drew an amused chuckle from the demon king. "Hell, didn't even know what to do with you once I got you," she muttered, shoulder deep in the icebox.

"I do have very good hearing, you know that, right?" Crowley quipped dryly from the table. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say I was having an influence on you."

"And I'm sure that pleases you."

"Of course."

Murron backed out of the fridge and closed the door with a foot as she turned towards the cabinets. She stared grimly at the list in her hands. "Longer than expected." She sighed. "Guess this is gonna be a longer trip that I would've liked."

"You'll be fine," Crowley assured her. "You really think I wouldn't have any insurance on my investments? Please."

"I suppose that's the closest I'll get to anything resembling concern from you," Murron remarked, smiling. Crowley shrugged. "Take what I can get."

"Probably the wisest course."

Murron blew out a steadying breath, then folded the list and slipped it into her bag. She gathered her things, paused as if to reconsider the whole thing and maybe order food online, but then shook her head. Crowley was right: there was no point in hiding here like a scared rabbit. She wasn't entirely defenseless against demons. She had the coin, plus a hex bag and spray bottle of holy water in her purse. The latter had been Crowley's idea, referring to it as a kind of supernatural mace. He'd kept his distance while she made it, not that Murron would have ever used it against him. Better safe than sorry, he'd said, eyeing the bottle as though it were a bomb.

She'd had to make a lot of adjustments in the house for him, actually. She kept the salt off the table, should the shaker be knocked over and hit him. If she had salt on her food, she made sure to either eat alone or apply it from the other side of the kitchen. Forget the time he almost snagged some of her popcorn while she watched a movie! She'd had to slap his hand away and hold the bowl far from his grasp. It had been the little things that reminded her of what was truly living under her roof, even before the sigils.

Crowley followed Murron into the living room, hovering by the sofa while she fumbled for her car keys and unlocked the door with a shaking hand. "I'll still try to keep it quick. I know I can't stop you from wandering off, but for my nerves' sake, please be here when I get back?" Murron pleaded, her eyes huge. Crowley smiled and gave her a little pat on the arm.

"I'll be here. Promise!" he added when she stared at him pointedly. "Go do what you gotta do. I'll be fine."

"I'll be quick," Murron repeated, backing out of the front door. "And if something happens -"

At that, Crowley gave her a very light shove, wiggled his fingers by way of goodbye, and closed the door on her anxious face.

Never before had food shopping been such a trying ordeal.

Murron hunched over her cart, trolleying up and down the aisles like a woman possessed. Anyone she passed, she looked away from, terrified any one of them could be a demon in disguise. This cornered-rabbit demeanor stayed with her until towards the end of her trip. It seemed the hex bag had done its job, so she lowered her guard as she browsed the meat cases.

As she bent towards the beef roasts, something tapped her on the shoulder. Anything resembling calm flew from her as she jumped at the contact and twirled around to face her 'assailant'. She looked into the puzzled face of one of her coven sisters, clearly surprised at Murron's reaction.

"Decaf, honey!" she cried, placing steadying hands on Murron's quaking shoulders.

"Rose!" Murron gasped. "What're you doing here?"

Rose gave a small, uneasy chuckle. "Have you been getting too close to the cauldron, sweetie? What do you think I'm doing here? It's a _grocery store_." She pointed to her own cart helpfully. "I was hungry," she mimed eating, "so I got in the car," she pretended to drive, "and came to the store!" She ended this pantomime with a grand gesture to encompass the whole store. Immediately, Murron felt ridiculous. Rose noticed this change and laughed heartily.

"Sorry, Rose, it's been a rough month," Murron apologised, rubbing her forehead wearily. Rose gave an understanding nod.

"The chemo not going well?" she asked, her voice a bit lower. "Is that why you haven't been coming to the sabbats?"

Murron did a small doubletake, then shook her head. "The chemo? Oh, no! No, that's not it at all. I'm...I'm cured, actually."

Rose gasped, one hand coming to her mouth excitedly. "You did the crossroads deal!"

Murron grinned as sheepishly as she could. "Sure did."

"How did it go? Did you get a cute one?" Rose sidled closer to Murron's side, elbowing her in the ribs playfully.

Images of Crowley's smug face flashed through her mind as Murron feigned a laugh. "Oh, you know it! Totally worth the whole selling of my soul thing!"

"Ten years of perfect health is better than nothing!" Rose said.

"Yeah, I suppose it is. I would've died, anyway, right?" Murron's spirits dropped as she remembered she'd never told any of her coven sisters her real plan. None of them had any idea of what she'd asked for or how long she'd given herself. But if it hadn't been worth it, she never would have bothered. Crowley's companionship was worth it, even with the new dangers. Unconsciously, she reached up to caress the coin at her throat. Rose caught this and leaned in to take a better look.

"Where'd you get that? It looks really, really old!"

"Old family heirloom. I found it in the attic," Murron replied, surprised at how easily the lie came to her. Crowley had been rubbing off on her, after all. "I haven't had a necklace in so long and thought it looked pretty, so...I put it on."

"Is it worth anything?" Rose asked next, glancing up at Murron's face. The strange serenity she found there gave her pause, then she smiled warmly. "It must be, if your expression says anything about it."

Murron smiled as well, a soft blush brightening her cheeks. "It is. It's worth a great deal."

"It must have been your father's, then, am I right?" Rose prompted. Still comfortable in the lie, Murron nodded. "I'm happy you found it, then. It's good to see you smile. When you first came to us, you were really down in the mouth. Though I guess we couldn't really blame you for that. Stage four breast cancer can't have been an easy thing to hear."

"No, it wasn't," Murron sighed, her hand moving from the coin to press against her chest. Rose stroked Murron's upper arm affectionately.

"But that's over with now, so let's focus on that," she said. "So, will you be joining us this weekend? Full moon and all that. Good for productive spells."

"I can't. I have a houseguest coming over then," Murron explained. Rose's eyebrows went up. "It's just a relative, don't get any ideas," Murron added with a laugh. "I'll catch up with you guys some other time. I'm just enjoying my health right now."

"I understand. Listen, you call me if you need anything, you hear?" Rose insisted, going back to her cart and starting off. "It was good to see you!"

"And you," Murron returned, waving back when her friend did. She watched Rose disappear around the corner of another aisle, then sighed. She lifted the coin close to her lips and whispered, "Totally worth it." She didn't care if Crowley could hear her; it was true. Compared to the sometimes-friendship of the coven, Crowley's constant presence in her life had left such a deep impact on her. Try as she might, she couldn't quantify that worth, nor did she really want to. It was enough to feel its worth and be done with it.

Her calm returning, Murron chose the roast she'd been eyeing since before Rose's arrival, put it in her cart, and started for the registers.

Crowley was in his usual spot, watching TV, when Murron came through the door, arms weighed down by multiple shopping bags. She kicked the door shut behind her and wobbled into the kitchen. Crowley turned the television off and joined her in the kitchen. He watched as she started to unload them, hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like it wasn't ending and he didn't have everything after him. Something about the very human, and oddly methodical, way Murron put groceries away left him slightly hypnotised. Murron didn't seem to notice his distance gaze until he gave a low laugh. She glanced over at him from her spot by the counters, one hand on the cabinet door and holding a box of au gratin potatoes in the other. "What?"

"I was just remembering something," Crowley replied, lifting his head to look at her. The twinkle of mischief she'd grown accustomed to flickered in his eyes. He held his silence, enjoying the anticipatory look on her face. "Totally worth it, eh?"

The box of potatoes slipped from Murron's hand; she caught it clumsily before it reached the floor, disappointed in herself for being so surprised. Of course he'd heard her; hadn't she said it without caring? Still, his repeating it to her gave her a start, and a very warm one at that. "Yes," she managed at last, stuffing the box between the others in the cabinet and closing the door decidedly. "It has been worth it."

"Do you really think I'm one of the, how did you put it? _Cute_ ones?" Crowley continued, clearly enjoying himself. Murron's shoulders drooped in a silent sigh. "Because I'd certainly consider myself one of the _sexier_ ones. 'Cute' is what you call a puppy or a kitten. Not a king. And definitely not _this_." He withdrew his hands from his pockets to wave them in front of his body.

"Finished?" Murron, who'd been leaning her hands against the table as he carried on, asked with raised brows. Crowley grinned.

"Not even close, darling."

"Never talking to myself again," Murron declared, snatching some canned vegetables up and marching back to the cabinets.

"You know you love it."

"Actually, Crowley, what I'd love is for you to -" Murron looked back at him with as much severity as she could manage, her words dying in her throat to see the familiar smug smile on his face. He gazed at her intently from beneath heavy-lidded eyes, his eyelashes, remarkably long for a man, partially concealing the sharp green of his irises. Murron swallowed hard, then forced her eyes from his. "Now are you done?" she asked, her voice tense.

"For now."

"Good." Murron resumed putting her groceries away in silence. Crowley held his tongue, sensing he'd put her off her humor somewhat. Deciding for a change in topic, he said:

"You should be careful about talking to your coven sisters. In case you've forgotten, witches commune with demons on a near regular basis. The hex bags and holy water will only protect you from demons, not big-mouthed dramawhores. Your best bet would be to sever all ties with them. It's too risky, especially for me."

Murron paused, her lips pressed together in a firm line. "I hadn't thought of that. I'll call them later and tell them I plan to go solitary. I would have done it, anyway, with or without the demon deal."

"Will they believe you?"

"Rose swallowed the lie about the coin, didn't she?"

"Did she?"

"You think she saw through it?" Murron asked, suddenly anxious. Crowley shrugged. "It came so easily, I thought it had to be convincing enough. What if she's talking to one of the demons coming after you? What if she tries to come _here_? She'll see the sigils and know something's up. Oh god, I really did not think this all the way through!" She lowered her face into her hands, overwhelmed. "I should have kept it short or told them I hadn't planned on coming back to the meetings after the deal went through!"

Crowley raised a stilling hand. "Now, don't make yourself crazy over this. If she did see through the lie, we'll know soon enough. Besides, the wards have been holding. You've done a good job here, Murron. Really."

Murron's hands dropped from her face, falling dejectedly at her sides. "Have I? It suddenly doesn't feel like it."

"Look," Crowley started, crossing the floor to stand beside her. "While you were out, I had a bit of a test. Don't look at me like that, you know damn well I can take care of myself. I popped out to have a look around, check on things. It's still the bloody Apocalypse and I'm still involved; no amount of hiding will change that fact. Point is, I was able to come back here without anything following me. So yeah, you've done a _really_ good job here, darling. I don't say that to anyone else often, and certainly not to a witch barely out of the basics."

His words soothed her nerves, as they always seemed to, and Murron gave a slow nod. Crowley smiled, the kindness he sometimes showed reflecting in his eyes. He rested a warm hand on her shoulder, gave a gentle shake, and repeated a few more encouraging words. Murron's posture relaxed further and she returned the smile, albeit a little weakly. "Besides," Crowley added with a careless half-shrug, "if she does try anything, I'll just kill her."

"I'd like for it not to come to that, but if it has to..." Murron sighed and ran her hands over her face briskly. "But yeah, no point in worrying about what hasn't happened yet. If it even does."

"There's always the risk," Crowley reminded her grimly. "And when I'm at risk, I won't hesitate to destroy what's threatening me. Friend of yours or not."

"As if I could stop you?" Murron pointed out. _As if I would? _She kept that thought as low as possible, just in case he picked up on it. Sometimes it scared her to think how easily she'd given up friends, her coven sisters, her own _life_, all for him. The threat of death did strange things to people, she realized with a mental sigh. Very strange things. She looked back at Crowley, whose eyes remained on her face, his hand on her shoulder still. "I'll be fine," she promised in respose to the barest hint of concern in his stare. "Let me finish unloading and we'll...I don't know." She laughed, the high, shaky laugh of someone who felt they were losing their mind. "We really are making it up as we go along, aren't we?"

"It would seem so," Crowley agreed casually. "More fun that way, isn't it?"

Murron said nothing, preferring instead to smile patiently at him, as always whenever he'd make light of the dire situation they found themselves in. If Rose did alert the demons after him, they'd deal with it together.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Two weeks had passed since Murron's encounter with Rose, and so far, there hadn't been a peep. Crowley continued to come and go at random, though with far more caution than before. He knew something was on the rise. His playful moods had grown fewer and fewer. Murron often found him pensively gnawing on the knuckles of one hand, his eyes focused on something very far away.

Meanwhile, the rest of the world was quickly falling to pieces. Reports of freak weather patterns, animals dying or behaving in strange ways, and escalating crime rates poured daily from the television and newspapers. Many people were shouting about it being the end of the world, and they would be right. The other times Murron ventured out, she found countless rows of Bible thumpers linging the streets, bearing signs of 'Repent!' and 'God is Here!', and shouting at anyone who made the mistake of crossing their path. If she'd kept her distance from them before, she tripled those efforts now.

Demon sightings grew in terrifying numbers, as did the level of mysterious deaths. Crowley had revealed the causes for those deaths: demons hunting for meat-suits and souls for Lucifer. At the mention of the infamous fallen angel's name, Murron couldn't quite believe it.

"The demons against you, they're siding with _Lucifer_?" she asked, incredulous. Crowley nodded.

"I seem to be the only one with any sense around here, which isn't at all unusual," he replied. "Everyone else thinks Lucifer will favor the demon race once he's won, but I know better. He might be our technical creator, at least according to the loyalists, but he has no love for demons. We're just human souls gone corrupt and we both know how he feels about humans."

"If I'd known it was Lucifer, I would have warded against him, too. Why didn't you say anything?" Murron asked.

"Lucifer won't sully his hands looking for me. I'm but a very unimportant speck in a very large problem. Oh, if he manages to pull this off, he'll certainly come for me then. I hold a title in Hell. I was Lilith's right hand man for a space before all this started. Now I'm more than famous: I'm _in_famous."

"So, it was Lucifer's supporters who torched your house?"

"Yes," Crowley nodded. "Once the legions got wind of what I'd done, it was only a matter of time. I thought I'd dodged them by agreeing to your deal, but obviously that wasn't the case."

Murron overlooked the mention of her deal, preferring not to think of his accepting it simply as a means to an end. She was neck-deep in it now; there was no point in protesting his original reasons. Now he was more dependent on her protection than ever. She chose to focus on that, rather than what could've been the case had he been able to hold his own completely against Lucifer's loyalists. She understood now the severity of the situation and vowed to do everything in her power to ensure Crowley's security. He hadn't been the only one making an investment that first night!

Murron placed a supportive hand on Crowley's arm. "So long as you're under my roof, I'll do my best to keep you alive. I know it might not mean much coming from a witch and a new one at that, but -"

"But nothing," Crowley interjected. "It does mean a lot, I swear. I don't want to think about the alternative."

"I'm going to assume you're referring more to personal comfort than personal preference?" Murron quipped, eager to raise the mood to the usual levels of mirth. Crowley grinned a bit at that. "It's okay. I'm not offended." She winked at him, encouraging the weak grin to grow wider and more like his usual expression. "That's better. Now," Murron leaned in earnestly, "what happens now?"

"Funny you should ask me that," Crowley said. "I do have to get back out there. Something I'd left stewing on the backburner has proven fruitful; I need to address it before it's too late."

"Can I ask what it is?"

"You can."

"Will you tell me?"

"Maybe."

"How about if it works out and you get back alive?"

"Deal."

"Where's my kiss?"

At that, Crowley laughed, genuinely amused by her response. Murron shared his laughter, red in the face at how easily that had come to her. Normally he'd been the one doing the play-flirting. Still, she had to admit that it was liberating. And grand fun. So amused by her own wit, Murron was shocked into utter silence when Crowley leaned over and placed a very soft kiss on her mouth. When he drew away, it was but a few inches. He smiled in that slow, almost seductive way and murmured, "Now it's a deal."

Before Murron could react, he was gone, leaving her alone with her burning cheeks and quaking knees.

During Crowley's absence, which was already proving longer than the last one, Murron put her plan of severing ties with her coven sisters into action. She choose a neutral spot - a combination coffeehouse and eatery in the shopping district downtown - and invited them all to meet her for tea.

Aside from Rose, there were three others: Angela, Corrine, and Beth. Corrine held the prestigious title of High Priestess in their little coven, with Beth her right-hand, go-to witch. If Corrine couldn't be reached for anything, it was Beth who took over. Because Murron was the latest addition to the circle, Rose had been more or less assigned to mentor her. It wasn't that Corrine couldn't be bothered, it was just that she possessed a very inflated opinion of herself, both as a woman and as a witch.

Corrine was one of those effortlessly beautiful women who knew it and never shied away from letting others know it, too. Before Crowley, the women would sometimes go out, always with Corrine in the front like the most popular girl at school. That mentality had remained with her, which rankled Murron incessantly. If it hadn't been for Rose, Murron would never have agreed to the initiation in the first place.

As for Angela and Beth, they were borderline competitors for Corrine's approval. Neither seemed to dislike Murron, so she got on with them a lot better. Still, it had been frustrating to be in a coven that might as well have been the cast for _Mean Girls_. Murron expected this meeting to give her a splitting headache, but it had to be done.

Rose was already there with Angela when Murron arrived. Rose waved her over to a table in the back of the cafe. Murron crossed the short length of the dining area and slid into the booth beside Rose. Both Rose and Angela leaned in, eager to get a preview of what Murron had gathered them all for. Murron assured them she'd tell them everything once Corrine and Angela came. In the meantime, they each approached the counter to order their drink of choice, then sat down to wait for the rest of the coven to appear.

Fifteen minutes later, Corrine swept into the cafe like a queen with Angela close behind her. Corrine, ever the dramatist, was dressed to the nines in stereotypical witchy attire: broomstick skirt, open-toe sandals, and flowing peasant blouse. She'd even gone so far as to tie a decorative kerchief in her hair. The hoop earrings she wore were wide enough for dolphins to jump through and they danced everytime she tossed her head, which was often. This particular style had always appeared terribly artificial on her, unlike Murron who'd been sporting it since high school. It was clearly a case of what wore whom first: the clothes or the person.

"Blessed Be, sisters," Corrine greeted them, her voice heavy with effect. Beth echoed the greeting with enthusiasm, as did Angela. Only Murron and Rose kept theirs soft, preferring to keep their business where it belonged. Corrine slid into the booth, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and sent Angela to the counter with her drink order.

While Angela was gone, Corrine turned her gaze on Murron, who'd been quietly sipping at her tea. "Rose tells me you did the demon deal," she began baldly, causing Murron to choke a little on her drink. "How did that go?"

Murron dabbed at her chin with a napkin before responding. "Well, obviously. I'm healed now."

"I've been thinking about doing a deal as well," Corrine declared grandly. Murron said nothing. "I should. It's almost a rite of passage for a true witch."

"Perhaps a rite of passage for a black practioner, sure," Murron remarked off-handedly, unconsciously doing a fine imitation of Crowley's head tilt. "But you associate with demons now, don't you?"

Corrine sat up, her shoulders back in a display of pride. "Of course I do. I consult with them regularly."

"Consult?" Murron repeated with a small grimace. "Have you turned magus since we last met?"

Corrine's eyes narrowed at Murron. "What's happened to you?" she asked suspiciously. "You were never this...saucy before."

"I've sold my soul. It kind of changes a person's perspective," Murron replied with a simpering smile. _Living with one changed it, too._ she thought, hiding her face in her mug as she took another sip. A burning sense of pride caught flame inside her to imagine Corrine's reaction to Crowley, a very high-ranking demon, living in her house. Her. Murron. The least experienced of them all and she'd managed to catch a king. Had her head not been down, all of this would have been telegraphed in her eyes and the smile that made her lips tremble.

"Speaking of demons," Beth started, craning around Rose to look over at Corrine, "have you heard about you-know-who recently?"

"Voldemort?" Murron quipped, unable to help herself. Corrine flicked a cold look her way, then focused on Beth's question.

"Yes, they say he's managed to raise Death. It won't be long now, girls. Soon, that traitor will be caught and punished, as he ought to be," Corrine said, her lips stretching in a sneer.

"I heard he was seen in South Dakota recently," Angela, returning from the counter bearing her drink as well as Corrine's, chimed in, having caught the conversation on the way back. "He's helping the Winchesters. Again."

Murron listened to all of this, knowing full well they were talking about Crowley, with as straight a face as she could muster. To reveal anything about him would put him at risk. She fought the urge to touch the coin as she thought about how he was reacting to this news. With any luck, he was too involved in whatever he was doing to really focus on it.

"I don't know why we're getting involved in it," Rose remarked. "We never used to listen to demons or do their bidding. What's changed?"

"The world is ending," Corrine pointed out sharply. "If we're going to be on any side, it's going to be the winning one."

"But what if they don't win?" Rose pressed. "What if it all goes wrong and we're at risk?"

"We're witches, not normal humans," Corrine returned. "There are more of us than there are of them."

"But -" Rose began again. Corrine slammed her open palm onto the table once, effectively silencing Rose's protests.

"They _will_ win and we'll reap the rewards. Just you watch," Corrine hissed. "By declaring our open devotion to Hell now, we'll be spared when Lucifer wins."

The further the conversation went, the less Murron wanted to be there. Everything in her screamed to get out, to get back to the house and wait for Crowley. She craved his reassuring presence more than ever now. So long as he survived, be it by his own hand or hers, she knew they'd come out of the pending Apocalypse safely. Or as safely as one could when the world was ending and everything was out for your head. Even now the weather outside was changing dramatically; she could hear heavy raindrops beginning to pelt the windows, matching the beat of her racing heart. However, if she wanted to escape, she had to do what she'd come there to do, and be done with it.

"I'm going solitary," Murron declared, her words rising over the hurried conversation of her coven sisters. At that, everyone fell silent; Corrine stared at her as though she'd just announced she'd grown an extra head.

"You're bailing on us?" Corrine demanded. "Just when we're winning?"

"Hey, that's your deal, not mine," Murron clarified, lifting a warding hand towards the glowering woman. "I don't know what you guys have been doing since I last saw you, but I was never consulted about siding with Lucifer."

"You're one of us. It's automatic," Beth said. Angela nodded. Only Rose appeared skeptical and a little anxious at what this news would do to Corrine's already self-righteous mood.

"No, I don't think so," Murron directed this at Beth.

"You're being awfully hypocritical, Murron," Angela said. "You've gone dark side with your demon deal. None of us have done that. If anyone should be on Lucifer's side, it's you. He might actually let you out of your contract."

"I don't think soul contracts work that way," Murron replied.

"Oh, and you're suddenly an expert?" Corrine asked bitterly. "You're still a novice. Without our guidance, you never would have made that deal! You owe us!"

Murron gaped at Corrine. "Excuse you, but I think I would have figured it out on my own eventually."

"Not before you died, I bet," Beth sniped quietly. Murron's eyes snapped towards her.

"That's cold, Beth," Rose said, looking towards Murron sympathetically. "Murron's smart; I think she would have discovered it even without our help."

"Thank you, Rose," Murron said gratefully, though Beth's words still rankled. "Besides, I didn't get into the craft for demons or deals or supporting Lucifer." She directed all of this at Corrine, Angela, and Beth, staring them down pointedly in turn. "It just happened that a deal ended up being the only way out."

"Regardless, you can't really expect us to let you go just like _that_," Corrine interjected, snapping her fingers for emphasis. "You were Initiated. That's kind of binding, you know."

"Says who?" Murron challenged. "I should be allowed to go my own way if I choose. And I do choose. I don't want to be involved with Lucifer or his supporters."

"But why not? Are you suddenly above that?" Angela pressed. Beth and Corrine murmured assent, wanting to know as well.

"Despite what I choose to do now, I was raised Catholic. I know what Lucifer does, what he means. I don't want any part of that," Murron explained. "If I hadn't fallen off the God wagon, I never would have imagined selling my soul for ten years' worth of perfect health, let alone associating with demons at all."

"But you're in the thick of it now whether you want to be or not," Corrine said, jumping on the only leg she had left to stand on. "Lucifer holds your contract. If you want to go beyond ten years, you'll side with him. Otherwise, you'll regret it. If not from him, then from _me_." Here her tone lowered dangerously. Despite her flaky personality, there was no denying Corrine's abilities. She'd grown very adept at offensive dark magic and would not hesitate to use it against her own. And while Murron was pretty confident she could handle it, her own magic was still far too defensive and minor to really hold her own against Corrine for very long. Part of her wanted to believe Crowley would step in, but she couldn't depend on that.

Instead, Murron lifted her chin in response to Corrine's challenge. "I might be a novice, but never think for a second I wouldn't take you on."

"You'd never survive," Corrine promised her. "Bad enough your soul is already promised to Hell. I didn't know you were in such a hurry to cash in."

"Who says I'd lose?"

The tension at the table had grown so heavy that other patrons were quickly abandoning their own booths. Only Rose seemed concerned about this, though she did nothing to settle the dispute between Murron and Corrine. Angela and Beth were clearly in Corrine's corner, for they stared Murron down as coldly as their High Priestess.

Deciding she'd had enough, Murron rose from her seat with regal poise, chin still held high, eyes still locked with Corrine's in a silent battle of wills. "I'm leaving the circle, whether you agree to it or not," she repeated firmly. "I'd thank you for your help, but it would be insincere." She cast a dismissive glance around the table, her gaze softening only when it landed on Rose. She offered a mute apology to her, then turned on her heel and left the coffeehouse.

Crowley was still gone when Murron walked through the front door a half-hour later. Admittedly too exhausted to rehash the scene at the coffeehouse, Murron gave silent thanks for that. She put her things on the sofa and trudged into the kitchen, eager for a cup of genuinely _good_ tea. As she passed Crowley's chair and consequentially, the half-empty bottle of Craig, she reached out and snagged the bottle, bringing it into the kitchen with her. Time to Scotch up her tea, she thought, putting the bottle on the counter and rummaging about in the cabinet for her Scottish Breakfast blend.

As the water boiled, she sat at the table, gnawing anxiously on her thumbnail. As if Crowley's being hunted by demons wasn't bad enough, now Murron had her own kind after her as well. What a pair they made! If this didn't form a sense of solidarity, she didn't know what could. She debated adding witch wards to the multitude of sigils already covering the house or at least putting up protective spells to prevent anything from getting in, either magicked or otherwise. Things were getting trickier and trickier, and for all she knew, it would be this way for a very long time.

The kettle's whistle drew her from her thoughts. As she prepared her tea - generously adding a portion from Crowley's bottle into the already potent brew - the familiar waft of sulfur announced Crowley's return. She glanced over her shoulder just as he walked in, looking world-weary and anxious. Apparently, it had been that kind of day for both of them. Wordlessly, she passed him the bottle. He accepted it with a breathless 'Thanks' and took a long swig, not even bothering to fetch his glass.

Crowley plunked himself down on his side of the table, exhaling as though he'd run a marathon, as Murron brought her teacup over and sat down again. They nursed their respective drinks in silence. Speech was almost a foreign language to them at the moment. Crowley obviously knew what had happened with Murron and even Murron had surmised a decent amount of what Crowley had been up to. Words were unnecessary. Their postures said enough: both were bordering on being Quite Done.

After awhile, they looked up at each other and asked in unison: "Long day?", only to dissolve into peals of tired laughter. Another barrier broke between them then and a new sense of familiarity grew in its wake. For now, they were two people in a world that was ending, both targeted by those they'd once considered their own. It finally sank in that they were all each other had, the only things really keeping them from being eradicated from the planet. But rather than depressing them, it added to their weary mirth and suddenly, things didn't seem so grim after all.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Unlike the other times things had gotten tense, Murron refused to cower in the corner and wait for everything to come crashing down. The challenge had been issued and she would step up to the plate, no matter what happened. She'd never been a particularly aggressive person, but when the world was ending and one's life was under serious threat, things certainly changed.

As the Apocalypse raged outside, Crowley and Murron put their heads together to work on her offensive skills. He showed her a number of truly devastating spells, many conjured simply by the spoken word. Fire seemed to be his specialty, as many of these spells resulted in the conflagration of its target. He kept the ones that required complex rituals to a minimum, preferring instead to focus on spells that could be cast in a matter of seconds if in the field. With the sigils still active, there would be no need to expect an attack at the house, a fact that negated the need for ritual. If their enemies were going to launch a coup, it would be out there.

One afternoon before Murron was setting out to do a quick supply run, Crowley put a stilling hand on her arm. "Hang on. There is one thing I need to do before you go."

"Did I miss something?" Murron asked, self-consciously patting herself down, reaching for the coin pendant, and running a quick hand through her bag. Crowley shook his head.

"I should warn you, though, this might hurt a bit." With that, Crowley gestured towards her eyes, fingers curled in a half-fist as he rearranged her soul contract. Murron bent over in pain, biting her lip to keep from crying out. In a moment, it was done and when she opened her eyes, she gave a violent start.

A massive propane-blue hound stood at Crowley's side. It affected the air around it like a heat haze, gently flickering as though its body were made entirely of flame. She could almost hear the crackling burn, that roaring blaze that accompanied wildfires, as it slowly moved in place, blood-red eyes taking in the measure of her. It didn't appear to view her as an enemy; she relaxed a bit.

"How long has that been in here?" she asked, pointing at the flickering hound. Crowley gave the beast an affectionate pat on the head and the thing leaned into the touch.

"Growley?" Crowley gave a small mouth shrug. "He's always here. I consider him insurance for myself. Only just got back, though, didn't you, boy?" At that, 'Growley' chuffed at his master. "Had to leave him behind during that one run, you know the one that ruined my suit. I've had him trailing you since I gave you the coin."

"So, this is the 'he' you were talking about then?" Murron prompted. Crowley nodded, still stroking his hound's fiery head. "How come I never noticed him before now?"

"You couldn't see him. Only other demons can see hellhounds. Well, other demons and those about to die at the end of their deals," he tagged that last bit on almost as an unfortunate truth.

"But I'm not either of those; what's changed?"

"I adjusted your contract to include the ability to see hellhounds," Crowley explained conversationally. Murron's mouth formed an 'O' in response.

"Are they all this big?" she asked next, carefully circling around Growley. He followed her movement with his eyes, reluctant to break contact with his keeper's hand.

"Nah, most of them are no bigger than your average mutt. My Growley here? I bred him to be this big," Crowley replied proudly, mussing Growley's cheeks with both hands. When he noticed Murron staring at him strangely, he smirked a bit and seized one her hands. She sputtered incoherently in her confusion as Crowley put her hand on Growley's flaming head, holding it there until he felt her fingers relax. Growley gave a very small rumble at the strange touch, but remained still.

"He's not hot!" Murron breathed as she began to gingerly pet Growley's 'fur'. "It's still weird, though. It's like touching living gas! But he's still solid. Very weird."

"It is a very unique experience," Crowley agreed, chucking his hound under the chin. "And a rare privilege for a human."

Murron smiled at that. It was a further sign of trust that Crowley let her see and touch his hellhound. The effect was not lost on her, and she felt Crowley understood that. She spent a few more minutes running her fingers through the strange smoky landscape of Growley's head and withers, enjoying the sensation of flames tickling her skin. Knowing something this impressive was following her enhanced her confidence. She'd be just fine, no matter what came at her.

Finally, Murron stopped petting Growley and blew out a decided breath, mustering her reserves of courage. "I'd best get this over with," she remarked, shouldering her bag and starting for the door. Crowley followed, Growley padding silently after. The hound paused just behind her as she opened the door, passing through when she did.

If someone had told her she'd be out food shopping with a five foot tall flaming hellhound at her side three months ago, Murron would have never believed it. As it was, the presence of the snuffling beast was almost as great a comfort as if Crowley himself had been there. Growley was an extension of the Crossroads King and that was enough. Still, it was becoming difficult to explain to the people they passed why their carts suddenly veered and their groceries flew from their hands. Growley's impressive bulk, invisible to everyone but Murron, dislodged everything he squeezed by. Murron took to browsing empty aisles after the last person had leveled a cold glare at her.

"Walk behind me," Murron whispered to the hound. "But keep close." Growley snorted in response, falling back slightly to keep pace just behind her and the cart. She'd chosen an out of the way grocery store for the day's food run. There was little chance of Corrine or her cronies running into her here. That didn't excuse any other demon encounters, unfortunately. Growley's presence was a double-edged sword: while he kept her safe, he also announced to any possessed human that Crowley was associated with her.

With this risk in mind, Murron kept the trip short. Growley went outside ahead of her to keep watch by the car as she paid for her groceries. As she loaded the conveyer belt, a challenging howl shattered the drone-like atmosphere of the store. For a moment, no one seemed to know what to do. Then Growley hurled himself through the wide main window of the grocer's, blood on his muzzle, and thundered over to where Murron stood. To everyone else, it seemed as though the window had shattered on its own and they ran, screaming, to avoid the sudden rainfall of glass. Amid the ensuing chaos, Murron, abandoning her things on the belt - the cashier had already taken cover behind the counter - followed after the great hellhound as he made for the rear of the store. Carts flew in every direction as he tore through the aisles, eager to reach the loading docks and get Murron out of the line of danger. Murron kept pace as best she could, dodging the thrown carts and panicking people that almost prevented her from keeping the hound in sight.

Finally, they both burst through the swinging doors leading to the back of the store, ignoring the indigant cries of the workers that had yet to begin flailing about. Growley careened through the loading dock's door, Murron at his fiery heels. The lot behind the store was clear save for some trucks and piled crates. They had to escape without the car, Murron realized, silently thanking Crowley for restoring her health, as she ran with all her might after the hellhound.

Suddenly, four plumes of black smoke swept across the lot, bypassing the fleeing pair and blowing into the dock's destroyed door. Murron glanced over her shoulder just as those same workers she'd passed before cam hurrying out, eyes full-on black and their pace inhumanly fast. Ahead of her, Growley broke his stride to cut a crescent spin, his smouldering claws scorching the ground as he rounded about and started for the demons.

"That's Crowley's mutt!" one of the demons cried. Two of the four demons hung back to take on Growley while the other two continued after Murron. She stopped herself from looking back at Growley even as his snarls and yelps sounded behind her, coupled with the pained screams of the demons stupid enough to fight him. She kept her eyes fixed ahead of her, the lot's surrounding fence coming into view. She'd have to jump it, and put more force into her run, pumping her legs until her muscles burned in protest.

The force of something striking her from behind threw her to the hard ground. Murron's cheek struck the concrete, leaving her dazed just long enough for the two demons to catch up to her. She heard them sniggering above her, clearly pleased with themselves. It wasn't until the sky above them darkened, the light turning a hazy red around them, did their snickering cease. Murron looked up with some difficulty, her mouth opening before she knew what was happening as the crackling swirl of red smoke descended upon her.

_Trust me!_

_I do._ Murron closed her eyes just as the smoke enveloped her, filling her with Crowley's demonic essence. She surrended to his control, grateful for the chance to rest, as he worked magic she never would possess through her. As if in a dream, she watched as the demons were thrown aside, their bodies catching flame before they landed again. She saw Growley join them, his muzzle and fur covered in demon blood. Sensing his master's presence, he looked to Murron's body for further orders.

"Let's move, boy!" Murron heard herself say. The lot blinked out of view: Crowley had transported them away.

Murron woke in her bed an indeterminate amount of time later. Her head ached along with her legs. Two depressions on the bed at her feet and side told her she wasn't alone. She lifted her head to see Growley curled up at the end of the bed, his wolf ears pricking up to see her awake. "Guess I got a dog, after all," she mumbled, her head dropping back onto the pillow.

"Love me, love my dog, darling," Crowley remarked from his place at her side. She turned her head to look up into his face. "Sorry about the ride."

"Don't be. I was in no condition to take on that many," Murron assured him. She rubbed her head, wincing at the pain. Crowley had the decency to appear apologetic. "How long have I been out?"

"Couple hours. It's an exhausting thing, being possessed."

"No kidding."

"Can I get you some tea?" Crowley asked after a moment of silence passed between them. Murron nodded. He gave her a brief smile, then disappeared.

While he was gone, Murron took a moment to think about what had happened. How much had Crowley heard before he decided to take action? She guessed it had been after he realized Growley couldn't take on all the demons, especially after they'd separated. Whenever it had been, she was grateful. It had been strange, willingly taking in a demon's energy, and allowing herself to be possessed. Of course, it had been anyone but Crowley, she never would have extended that kind of trust. Because it had been an extreme gesture of trust, letting him in like that. It seemed to be the thing with them: when one demonstrated perfect trust in the other, they were bound to pay it back in kind. Murron began it by trusting Crowley with her soul; he continued it by trusting her with his life. From the deal to the sigils to the coin to the ability to see hellhounds - _his _hellhound - to the open acceptance of his power into her, it had been a constant circle of give and take. Funny how in the span of barely a month and a half, Murron had managed to create a strong bond with none other than a demon. She'd said already it had been worth it to make the deal; now she knew it had been the best decision of her life.

Crowley reappeared with the tea; Murron pushed herself up into a sitting position and accepted the china cup with gracious thanks. Rather than sitting beside her again on the bed's edge, he rounded it and settled himself on the empty side. Murron watched as he arranged himself comfortably, tipping his head back to rest against the wall and closing his eyes. Growley shifted from his spot to lay closer to his master, propping his head on Crowley's knee and snorting for attention. Crowley absently scratched behind the hound's pointed ear in silence. The scene in the darkened bedroom, Growley's shimmering body the only source of light, was almost domestic, and surprisingly warm.

Murron put her teacup on the bedstand, then reached out and put her hand over Crowley's free one. He rolled his head towards her, eyes opening halfway to see her smile kindly at him. In that perfect silence, Crowley closed his fingers on hers, returned the quiet smile, Growley's contented rumble the only sound in the room.


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Murron woke to discover she wasn't alone. Lifting her head from the pillow, she saw Crowley on his back beside her, the hand that had been holding hers the night before still angled towards her. He was above the covers, suit jacket off, and tie removed. The first few buttons of his shirt were open, revealing the V at his the base of his throat and the faintest suggestion of dark chest hair. His chest rose and fell with each steady breath; it occurred to Murron she'd never stopped to wonder if demons needed to breathe or not. Apparently, they did.

His face, when she shifted her gaze to it, captivated her the most. His mouth was relaxed, lips parted enough to see the whites of his teeth. He looked so peaceful, and admittedly heartbreakingly handsome, oblivious to Murron's eyes on him. She moved a fraction closer to him, taking great care not to disrupt the tranquility of the scene just yet, and lifted herself up on one elbow. Thus above him, she tilted her head towards his face, gaze sweeping over his features with blossoming warmth. The urge to reach out and stroke his hair was almost too strong to ignore. How heavy of a sleeper could he be?

Biting her bottom lip anxiously, Murron hovered her free hand over his face, tracing the air above his lips, down across his cheeks, and back up over his closed eyes. Stray wisps of his hair tickled her fingertips when she trailed them across his forehead, barely touching his skin. His eyes contracted briefly, still closed, and he angled his head towards her touch. Murron swallowed back the gasp that threatened to give her away. She waited a few moments before daring to continue. Thankfully, he remained asleep when she touched his cheek gently, growing bolder as she cupped it in her palm and smiled to see him bend closer to her.

As she held his face in her hand, Murron recalled her reasoning behind her deal. Originally, she'd wanted to ask for her health, but once she'd heard tales of Crowley she knew she wouldn't have been satisfied with that. What was health if all she could do was spend it wanting something she felt she couldn't have? Because that had been the root of it: she'd wanted Crowley and only Crowley. Even with the mixture of loathing the demons she'd spoken to had used when describing him, she couldn't help but be captivated. Going out with a bang had been her plan, the 'bang' being Crowley. She'd gone into it with an idealistic view of him, a view he'd managed to shatter and replace with an even greater and far more appealing truth.

Even when he'd teased her - and he'd done so relentlessly for the first few weeks - she'd forgive him. His charismatic personality proved very addictive, his voice - here Murron had to pause, her fingers curling against his skin as she fought to compose herself. Suffice it to say, there was very little she didn't find appealing about him and these views continued to grow with each passing day.

She didn't want to believe he could even feel slightly the same. Self-preservation was his key priority and she'd never faulted him for it. It had become her first priority as well, her own preservation be damned. She was going to die, anyway; why not spend it keeping the one she -

Crowley shifted, cutting into her thoughts. Murron moved back to her own side and flipped over, feigning sleep. She felt him sit up and get off the bed. He gave a low whistle, summoning Growley to his side. The glowing hound appeared at the door and padded over to his master. Crowley knelt beside the beast and murmured something to him that Murron couldn't hear. The roaring crackle of Growley's body cut out suddenly: he'd gone.

"I know you're awake, Murron," Crowley declared suddenly, buttoning his shirt and putting his tie back on. "Enjoy yourself?"

"You could've said something," Murron groaned, thoroughly embarrassed.

"What, and ruin a perfect moment? Perish the thought!" Crowley purred, and she could hear the grin in his voice. He strolled around the bed and stood in front of her balled-up self. She glared up at him, the bottom half of her face burrowed deep in the covers, her cheeks burning bright red. "I'm not that cruel."

At that, Murron kicked out with one leg, smirking when Crowley avoided the half-hearted blow. He laughed softly and grabbed her leg, preventing her from tucking it back under the covers. He kept his hand on her calf, walking his fingers up her skin as he crouched low and put his lips close to her ear.

"Anytime you want to make this interesting, darling, I'm all for it."

Murron made an incoherent noise and yanked her leg out of his grasp. The hot flush of her cheeks had reached her forehead, sending her freckles into bold relief. Her eyes were wider than he'd ever seen them, pupils fully constricted in panic. He laughed again and walked away from the bed.

"Don't oversleep now, love. It's still the Apocalypse and you've still got a bunch of crazy witches on your pert tail," he called over his shoulder as he walked down the stairs. Murron snorted in response, refusing to budge until her heart rate had returned to normal speeds.

Awkward morning aside, Crowley'd had a point about Corrine: they were most likely still planning something. The demons that had abushed Growley and Murron the day before had to have been given a tip. And if it had been Corrine doing it, they knew that Crowley was associated with Murron and now _his_ enemies would be after him. Hopefully, neither Corrine nor the demons had figured out Crowley's exact location. If they had, things would become even more complicated than they already were.

"What if we take the initiative?" Murron asked. They were in the kitchen, but only Murron remained seated. Crowley was pacing the floor, gnawing on his thumbnail as he mulled the situation over.

"How do you mean?"

"Take it to them? I could go to Corrine's and -"

"No."

"No?"

"That's what I just _said_."

"Why not?"

Crowley stopped and levelled an exasperated look at her. "You're not ready for that yet. If you had been, you wouldn't have needed me to interfere yesterday. You're not..." He moved his hands in the air aimlessly, as if searching for the right words. "You're not 'field-tested'. It's not second nature for you to attack with spells."

"That is true," Murron sighed, pressing her lips together. "I panicked when I saw Growley fly through the windows." She furrowed her brow. "Where is he?"

"Growley? I sent him out to keep watch. Patrol, if you will. He'll come when I call again. I just felt it was a better idea that he not be around us as much. He's a bit of a beacon. In retrospect, I never should have assigned him to you, at least not that closely. Before when he was tailing you from far away, it just seemed like my hellhound was wandering around. Now, they know he had a target: you."

"So what would you suggest we do?"

"We do have to handle Corrine, I agree with that. But we can't be stupid about it. You know where she lives, yeah?"

"Yes, all of the meetings were held there."

"Good. That's a start."

"I can tell you've already got something in mind."

"Clever girl. I do."

"Well? Plan on keeping me waiting forever?"

Crowley bit the tip of his tongue at her devilishly, then slid into his chair. "You're going to go over there, but it won't be you," he explained, leaning in towards her. Murron blinked, then her eyes widened as comprehension dawned. Crowley grinned. "You don't mind?"

"What, taking you inside me and letting you have complete control over my body?" Murron asked innocently. His grin widened. "What do you think?"

"That's my girl," Crowley said appreciatively, winking. "Whenever you're ready."

It was a strange thing to be controlled. As before, the only thing Murron could liken it to was a dream, the kind where all you could do was sit back and observe what was happening. She sat inside her head like a passenger in a plane that was her body, seeing as Crowley saw, feeling as he did, and sharing his thoughts. Oh yes, she could hear him: it was how they communicated while he possessed her.

They'd left his body on the bed, looking for all the world like a sleeping person. Crowley had already explained that he only had a short time before his meat-suit would become unsuitable; an hour tops. Hoping to be finished long before then, Crowley teleported them to Corrine's doorstep. Crowley ran the bell and, assuming his best impression of Murron, prepared to sell the lie.

Corrine opened the door shortly after, her gaze narrowing to see "Murron" standing there. "Come back to beg for forgiveness?" she hissed.

"If you're open to talking," Crowley replied in Murron's voice. Murron, nestled deep inside her conscious, sent Crowley a warning thought.

_Please be careful in there; this is my body at risk here._

_Fret not, darling, I'll take immaculate care of your amazing physique._

_Now isn't the time to be cute. Quick, she's letting us in!_

Crowley smiled in thanks to Corrine, who'd stepped aside to let the other in. They'd walked just a few feet into the living room when, suddenly, Crowley couldn't move.

_What's wrong?_ Murron could feel her body weaken as Crowley's power dropped a few dozen levels.

_Devil's Trap_. Crowley thought back, looking down at the throw rug he was standing on. _Under the rug, undoubtedly. Bollocks. This could be bad._

_Can't you get back to your body?_ Murron asked next, beginning to panic a little. _If it's just me, then the trap won't work. I could take her out!_

_I'm not leaving you here to this bitch._

_Well, you're going to have to if you expect to get out of this alive! Corrine's capable of pretty much anything; what if she starts torturing you? It's _my _body, remember?_

"Talking to your little bitch girlfriend, are you?" Corrine sneered, stepping up to Crowley and crossing her arms in triumph. "Don't you want to know how I knew?"

"Whether I want to or not, you're still going to run your mouth, aren't you?" Crowley returned. "Get it out of your system, then."

"You've been sold out, Crossroads King," Corrine continued, walking in a slow circle around him. "By your own kind, even. Oh yes, your little crossroad demons were more than happy to answer my summonings and take my soul in exchange for finding you."

"Congratulations. You've figured out what I already knew."

"You think this is a joke?" Corrine leaned in as far as she dared, yet didn't lay a hand on Murron's body. "Your both going to be taken to Lucifer and you can guess what he'll do to you, can't you?"

"Certainly not going to invite me to tea, that's for sure."

"Nice defense mechanism," Corrine remarked dryly. "Oh, also?" She spun on her heel slowly, casually, and faced Crowley again. "Don't even think about smoking out, either. We have your body."

_Shit. _they thought in unison. This wasn't going to end well.

_Call Growley! Get him back at the house!_ Murron insisted.

_I can't. If demons are at the house, they'll have brought their own. Growley's a tough pup, but he can't handle all of them. No, we'll have to play this one just right. She'll trip up eventually._

_And by that time your body could be killed or otherwise compromised! Smoke out and find a temporary meat-suit! _

_Didn't I already say I wasn't going to leave you?_

_And I appreciate it, but this isn't the time for bravado. We're in a shitty place and the only way we can get out of this alive AND get your body back is for you to smoke out and leave her to me._

_No, I've a better idea. _

_What could possibly be better than that?_

_Use your power. The Devil's Trap doesn't affect you._

_Do you even know if that will work?_

_Worth a shot. Do it._

_How?_

_Like this._

Instantly, their consciousnesses shifted and Murron was back in control of her body. She felt Crowley in the back of her mind, heard him tell her not to reveal the truth just yet. If this was to work, they'd need to take Corrine by complete surprise.

"Getting a little tired of this silent conversation thing you've got going," Corrine said. "Point is, you're cornered! They know I have you. It won't be long now before they come to collect."

"You seriously sold your soul to find me?" Murron asked, still maintaining the illusion of Crowley being in control. "Big mistake, darling."

_Nice._

_Thank you._

"I don't think so. Once I deliver you to Lucifer, he'll lift the contract and give me my soul back," Corrine replied smugly. "He promised me himself."

"You know there's a reason why he's called the Father of Lies, right?"

"You might want to show a little more respect to your creator, Crowley," Corrine advised them, resuming her easy pace around them. "In fact, if you kiss his ass enough times, he might just make your death quick. Same with Murron."

Murron laughed outright at that. In the back of her mind, she heard Crowley echoing her. This had dragged on long enough.

"No witty retort to that?" Corrine mocked, coming to a stop before them again. She feigned a pout. "You disappoint me! I heard you were more of a challenge!"

"I would hate to disappoint," Murron replied coolly. "So I won't."

In the next second, Corrine's floor began to catch fire, summoned by the quickly-spoken Latin that poured from Murron's lips. The other witch leapt back in alarm as the flames licked over the rug containing the Devil's Trap and burnt it enough to set Crowley free. He regained control of Murron's body just as quickly, hurling Corrine into the other side of the house before teleporting out.

True to Corrine's word, the house was surrounded by at least a dozen demons, all accompanied by a hellhound of their own. Crowley, with Murron's consciousness more at the forefront than before, ducked behind a neighbor's fence and took in the scene before them. "This could be tricky," he admitted, biting his lip nervously. "I'd hate to damage you, darling, but I'm afraid you won't be able to come out of this unscathed."

_Yeah, well, just make it up to me later. Do what you gotta._

Crowley smiled. "You're a treasure, darling, truly," he whispered as he made his way towards the rear of the house. The demons were largely in the front, though some patrolled the backyard. These Crowley took out relatively quickly, along with their hounds. Their screams would alert the others, no doubt, but by the time they could react, Crowley and Murron would already be inside and making their way up to Crowley's meat-suit. Once there, they'd be able to clear out the rest of the demons out front.

Crowley entered the house through the kitchen door, sending his powers out ahead of them and knocking those inside for a complete loop. In this way, they managed to reach Murron's bedroom and swiftly took out the two guarding his body. Crowley suggested Murron brace herself, then tore himself from her body in a torrent of crackling red smoke.

As he entered his meat-suit, Murron collapsed to the ground and gasped for breath. Possession was extremely tiring, but she knew she didn't have time to rest. This fight wasn't over and Crowley needed her help. She coughed a few times, looking up gratefully at Crowley when he helped her to her feet. Man, it was good to see his face again! It strengthened her and she nodded once back at him, silently assuring him she was ready. He winked at her briefly, then led the way back downstairs where the outside demons had begun to flood the small cottage.

Crowley went ahead of Murron, sweeping the first wave of demons aside like paper, then moved into the room as Murron shouted incantation after incantation from the landing. Flames burst around them, setting ablaze demons and hellhounds alike. She fought the sadness at seeing her beloved house get swallowed up in flames, everything she'd ever loved burning away with their enemies. Now wasn't the time for sentiment, she reminded herself and continued her assault.

Soon, she and Crowley had cleared enough of a path to get outside. A pair of hounds started after them, having managed to survive the blaze. Immediately, Crowley whistled loudly, the piercing sound echoing into the hot air. Growley appeared as if from nowhere, snarling, his claws extended towards his prey. He pinned the pursuing hounds at once, bowing his head to tear into their throats with relish.

Crowley gave a shout of triumph at his pet and seized Murron's hand. He swung her against him, holding her close with one arm, her own arms encircling his neck, and they disappeared from sight.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Crowley transported them in what appeared to the middle of a cornfield. Murron, only now allowing herself to recognise what had happened, fell from Crowley's arms and collapsed onto the ground. Grief overwhelmed her: her everything had been snuffed out in a matter of seconds, all by her own hand. It had been necessary, she knew, especially if they were to get out of there alive. That didn't make it hurt any less, though.

As she knelt, sobbing into her hands, Crowley had vanished from her side briefly, reappearing a few moments later to take up Murron's arm and pull her to her feet. Wordlessly, he teleported them from the field, rematerializing in a cozy kitchen filled with warmth and light. He directed Murron to a chair at the table, then moved about the kitchen rummaging through the cabinets. Murron watched him numbly, only half-aware of what had happened.

"Where the hell is it? What little old couple doesn't have - ah-ha!" Crowley pulled out a small box of teabags and moved over to the stove. As he fussed over the old kettle and found a mug and spoon, Murron continued to stare blankly into space. It wasn't until a steaming cup of tea appeared before her that her eyes refocused. She brough the cup to her lips as Crowley continued moving about the house, an object Murron couldn't make out clutched in one of his hands.

The tea began to work its magic on Murron's nerves, though the knowledge she was homeless still burned in her heart. So, this is what it had been like for him. She doubted it had affected him in the same way: he didn't seem like someone who placed much sentiment in anything. Part of her wished she could be the same, but only part.

Crowley came back into the kitchen twenty minutes later, tossed what appeared to be a large magic marker onto the counter, and sat down beside Murron with a tired sigh. "I've put my own sigils up. It should keep us hidden for awhile."

"I'll do mine in a bit, I just need to -"

"Take your time. I'm not going anywhere for awhile," Crowley interjected quietly, resting his fingers on her arm in a steadying gesture. They sat in silence for awhile. Murron finished her tea, then cleared her throat, and asked:

"Is this what it felt like for you?"

"What's that?"

"When you lost your home."

"Of course it did. I lost a lot of hard-won possessions that night. I can't replace a lot of them." His response was flippant, almost avoidant. Murron considered leaving it at that, but her own need for solidarity pushed her forward.

"I'm serious, Crowley."

He sighed again, fidgeted for a second, then gave a slow, unwilling nod. "It's not fun, I can tell you that. You take a risk and it blows up in your face." He snorted softly. "I'm sure you know how that last bit feels, yeah?"

Murron considered that. It was true that she sometimes wondered at her deal, how sensible it had truly been, and never moreso than in these instances. True, if she'd never made the deal, this mess might never have touched her life so intimately. She might still be home now, miserable from the chemo, and wanting time to speed up so it could all be over. She could be continuing with the facade of good humor and hope-for-the-best attitude all terminally ill patients were encouraged to have. The Apocalypse could have raged around her and she'd be as ignorant as the next poor sap. But she would have been alone.

She worked her hand beneath Crowley's and linked their fingers, much to his surprise. She held his hand tightly, leaning towards him to rest her head on his shoulder. As she relaxed against him, she felt his cheek touch the top of her head. That was his answer: she didn't regret a damn thing about their deal. Whatever risk that had come with it, she'd gone into with eyes wide open. Her house was gone, whatever world she'd created for herself had been blown apart, but she wasn't alone. That truth she held onto with everything she had; it was the only thing that mattered. She'd made her deal to spend out the last year of her life with Crowley and spend it with him she would, no matter what was thrown her way. And in the end, she'd go to Hell willingly, for she possessed a great sense of integrity towards the deal. It was just good business to carry through with everything.

Just good business...

The house had two bedrooms on the second level; Crowley insisted Murron take the master bedroom as it had more creature comforts and he wasn't keen on sleeping for awhile. It was quickly becoming a luxury he couldn't indulge in. Murron wasn't even sure if she could. She lacked the supernatural ability to deny exhaustion, unfortunately. It wasn't long before she was deeply asleep, leaving Crowley to his own devices.

Secure in the sigils he'd put up, the Crossroads King vanished from the small country house. Reappearing in front of the smoldering ashes of Murron's home, he gave a sharp whistle into the night. Immediately, the shimmering body of Growley materialized and he trotted over to his master's side. Crowley gave the demon hound a brief pat on the head, then the pair vanished from the scene.

There were other loose ends left to tie up.

Corrine stood at her basement altar, a summoning glyph drawn on its surface before her. She'd just finished adding her blood to the bowl of herbs in the center and was aiming to set the whole thing ablaze. She winced slightly as the match head flared to life, still somewhat uneasy around fire thanks to Murron's little spells. Where the hell had she learned that? Ever since her demon deal, Murron's skills had advanced in so short a time, Corrine couldn't help but wonder how much Murron had asked for. What was more, why was she associated with the Crossroads King in the first place?

Well, Corrine smiled to herself as the herbs and blood caught flame, _he'd_ just have to explain it himself.

Crowley appeared across the cellar, hands in his overcoat pockets. He stared over at Corrine mildly, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Funny," he said, "I was just on my way over. Thanks for making this easier."

"I wouldn't be so cocky if I were you, Crowley," Corrine replied, her eyes lifting to the beamed ceiling. Crowley didn't bother following her gaze.

"Felt that the moment I came in. You don't really think you're the first to do that to me, do you?"

"And yet you demons keep falling for it. I would have thought you'd have figured out a way around it by now."

Crowley chuckled, a humorless sound. "Who says I haven't?"

"If you have, prove it."

"You certainly are a dumb one, aren't you?"

"I'm just giving you the chance to show off. That's what you like, isn't it? To always one-up whoever it is you're dealing with?"

"Oh, we're dealing, are we? Last I heard you hadn't a soul left to sell. How is that working out for you, by the way?"

Here Corrine's jaw twitched. Crowley's smile was triumphant. "Consider this making up for my first mistake," she replied tightly. "I couldn't find you before, even with the summoning spell. Tell me: how did you manage that?"

"If there's one thing I excel at, it's keeping myself alive. That's how."

"Then I hope whatever you have up your sleeve this time keeps that up."

Crowley shrugged. "I think it will," he assured her, then gave a sharp whistle. Corrine felt a gust of hot breath hit the back of her neck and she froze. "There it is. My insurance."

Corrine turned slowly, eyes searching the area immediately behind her. "You can't kill me, Crowley. You'd be breaking your own rules."

"In your case, darling, I'll make an exception," Crowley assured her coldly. He nodded, giving Growley the signal. Within seconds, the hound had Corrine on the ground and was tearing her apart brutally. Crowley watched the carnage, his gaze hard. It wasn't often he exacted revenge on someone else's behalf. Of course, he benefitted from Corrine's death as well: the fewer people on his tail, the better. He considered Murron's part in it a bonus.

Growley polished off whatever was left of Corrine, then bounded into the rafters. He slashed at the Devil's Trap's circle, setting his master free. Crowley gave his pup a grateful pat on the head, then the pair disappeared from the cellar, content to return to Murron.

Murron was still down for the count when Crowley walked in, Growley at his heels. The hound went into the basement where the bodies of the owners lay, eager for another snack. Crowley, in the meantime, went upstairs to the master bedroom. Murron lay curled on her side beneath the patchwork quilt, the moonlight flooding the room with a bluish hue. Crowley approached the bed and sat beside her to peer into her face.

The sensation of his sitting down roused Murron and she opened her eyes groggily. For a second, she didn't seem to remember where she was or what had happened. Crowley's shadowed face brought her back to the present and her brow furrowed. "Kinda hoped it would've been a bad dream," she muttered. "But it wasn't, was it?"

"Afraid not, love."

"Have you been here the whole time?"

"Not quite. Just got back. I had to take care of a few things."

"And if I ask, you won't tell me, right?"

Crowley smiled faintly. "Maybe when you've had some time to adjust. I can bounce back from anything, but not you. Take your time. No one will find us here."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because it's me. I'm always sure," was the nonchalant response. This made Murron relax a bit more and she returned the quiet smile. At least one of them was sure about something. With how things had been going the past few days, Murron couldn't be certain of anything.

She rolled over onto her back and sighed. "The hell do we do now?"

Crowley shrugged his brows. "Keep laying low, I suppose. It can't be much longer now."

"Say whatever you think is going to stop the Apocalypse works and everything goes back to normal, what happens then? I can't stay here forever."

"Cross that bridge when we come to it. Until then, I suggest you enjoy the relative peace and quiet."

"What will you do? I imagine when Lucifer is out of the picture, you won't have to hide like this. You might be able to go back to Hell or start making deals again, right?" Murron propped herself up on her elbows and looked intently into his face. She really wanted to ask if he'd leave right away or at least wait a little while. She knew he'd always come and go whenever he pleased; it had been part of the original agreement. But that small part of her that was still selfish wanted to hold onto this a bit longer. Just a bit. If he sensed that, he kept it to himself. Or maybe he didn't even know, himself. Maybe it really was just a matter of waiting and seeing what came next. So much uncertainty! It was almost too much for Murron to process. She did need time, however much that would be.

When Crowley didn't respond, Murron sighed again. "I know. Cross that bridge when we come to it. I'm not really used to this."

"To be honest, neither am I. Before this Apocalypse nonsense, I had a very stable life. Make a deal here, influence someone there, maybe visit Hawaii on my time off. Frankly, I'm just as lost as you are. Before this, you at least had a place to go to. A home. Now we're both in the lurch. If I really wanted to, I could acquire real estate the usual way, but you'd probably have to go through proper channels, that sort of thing."

"I can't very well stay here," Murron observed, looking around. "I don't even know where this is."

"Middle of Kansas," Crowley replied. "I didn't exactly aim when we left."

"No. I don't even know anyone in Kansas," Murron remarked absently. "I suppose if I had to, I could start over here, when this is over." She blinked as something occurred to her. "What about Corrine? Or Beth or Angela? Won't they still have it out for me?"

"No," Crowley said, his voice absolute. Murron eyed him curiously. "I took care of it."

"Is that where you went?"

"She summoned me, actually. I was on my way there, but she saved me the trouble. Rather courteous of her, really," he added casually.

"Why'd you go back?"

"Like I said, had to take care of a few things."

"You killed her, didn't you."

"No, not me specifically," Crowley amended. "Growley did it. In my defense, he hadn't eaten in awhile. I wasn't going to deny him fresh meat, was I?"

Murron overlooked the fact it had been murder; demons, and hellhounds apparently, functioned under very different rules than humans. Also, one less thing after them was preferrable. "Don't ask, don't tell," Murron said, resigned. "She would've been killed by Lucifer, anyway, right? For failing?" Crowley nodded. "So, you almost did her a favor. Good. I can stomach that."

"Didn't do it for you, darling. I don't take kindly to those who seek to trap me twice. She had it coming."

"No arguments here."

"One less thing is still one less thing, however it was handled."

"You don't have to justify yourself to me, Crowley. I never once stopped being aware of what you are," Murron reminded him. "I don't think the others will jump at the chance to pick up where she left off, so there's that. I do feel bad about Rose, though. She was never in the Lucifer corner, either, but I think she was always too cowed by Corrine to speak up. I hope whatever fallout hits Beth and Angela, it'll bypass Rose."

"I wouldn't count on it. Exceptions aren't something we demons consider when wronged."

Murron couldn't disagree with that. "Do you think we need the other sigils?"

"Probably not."

"Are you sure?"

"It's coming to a head. Can't you tell?"

"Evidently not."

"I give it another day or so, then it'll be over. And then we'll decide what happens."

Murron sat further up in bed and clicked on the light. Crowley blinked at the sudden glare, smirking. "Sorry," she apologised. "Anyway, I'm guessing if those Winchesters win, we'll be free from Lucifer's followers, right?"

"That's the plan."

"I'm going to need a place to live," she murmured, half to herself. "I doubt I could stay here. I don't know if I'd want to, to be honest."

"There are ways around those problems," Crowley said. "Trust me."

"Surprisingly enough, I do," Murron smiled, her tone teasing. "Even with demons after me and being forced to burn my own house down in order to save your meat-suit, I still trust you to get me out of scrapes. Trusting a demon has to be a pretty stupid idea, right?"

"Other demons, certainly," Crowley allowed with a careless shrug. "I try to keep my business promises. How do you think I keep getting customers?"

"You are a shrewd one, I'll give you that."

"Thank you, darling."

"So," Murron clapped her hands together once and laid them in her lap. "Hiding in our foxhole until this all blows over?" Crowley nodded. "Then I'd better make sure there's enough tea in the cupboard." She threw the blankets off and slid out of bed. Crowley watched her go back downstairs, that satisfied smile he'd become known for appearing on his face.

"She's a trooper, that one," he remarked appreciatively to himself. With a mild chuckle, Crowley vanished from the bed, blinking out to join Murron in the kitchen.


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

With nothing left to do but wait, Murron decided to take advantage of the lull to explore the land the house was built on. Crowley remained housebound, finding nothing interesting about farmlands. Growley, when he wasn't on patrol, accompanied Murron on these wanderings.

As it turned out, the couple owned a fair amount of acres. A chicken coop was situated in the rear yard, currently housing three fat chickens and a rooster. Growley snuffled the wire cage, sending the chickens within into a flurry of feathers and squawks. Murron wondered if the birds could see Growley or if they were just reacting to the sudden disturbance of their coop. Regardless, it was an amusing sight, and Murron was in dire need of cheering up. After awhile, she coaxed Growley away from the panicked hens and they continued across the fields.

There was a fenced area where a lazy brown cow stood grazing, plus a speckled horse some feet from it, also enjoying the lush green grass. Murron steered Growley away from the animals, sensing he would only spook them and cause trouble. She rested her hand on the rise of his hackles as they moved through the steadily rising grass, their ankles being tickled by denser plantlife. If, a mere year ago, someone had told Murron she'd be taking nature walks with a fiery hellhound at her side, she'd have called them crazy. As it was now, such activities were almost normal.

She'd miss their strange company when all of this was over. Oh, Murron was very aware they'd have to part for awhile. Once it was safe to poke their heads back into the world, Crowley would no longer need Murron's assistance. She knew he'd still come and see her, as per terms of their deal, but she also felt it would be less frequently. So, even with the world potentially ending around them, Murron decided to fully enjoy the moments they had left.

She and Growley took a few turns around the property before returning to the house. A familiar figure was roaming the front of the gravel driveway, looking incredibly anxious. Murron squinted. "Rose?" she muttered. Growley's fur rose beneath her hand, his upper lip curling back in a snarl. "It's okay, Growley. Go back in the house. I'll be fine," she assured the hellhound. He reluctantly shimmered from view, presumably transporting back inside. No doubt he'd make Crowley aware of Rose's presence; Murron would have to get the other witch's reasons for being there out of her before he came out. She jogged to the front yard, waving towards Rose. Rose, catching sight of her, met Murron halfway.

"What're you doing here? How'd you find me?" Murron asked in a rush as soon as their hands met in a tight clasp.

"I dowsed for you," Rose explained, just as swiftly. "I heard what happened! Are you okay?"

"You shouldn't be here!" Murron insisted. "Or did you not see what happened to Corrine?"

"I haven't done anything to you! Or to him!"

"I can't promise he'll see it the same way. You should go, Rose. Now."

"But Murron!" Rose protested even as Murron began pushing her away from the house. "You're not safe here!"

At that, Murron stopped. She seized Rose's arm in a vise grip and hissed, "I am safer here with Crowley than anywhere else! How do you think I've managed to get this far? He's done more for me than any of you and you were supposed to be like sisters to me! No, Rose, I'm not leaving him. If you or Beth or Angela try and threaten him, in the name of Lucifer or anyone else trying to kill him, you'll have to answer to me. I'm not that novice you knew two months ago. I will kill anyone who tries to hurt him. Even you."

"He's a demon, Murron! He'll turn on you the first chance he gets!" Rose snapped back, shaking herself free. "If you come back with me, I can hide you, keep you safe - you know I'm not on Lucifer's side!"

"No," Murron repeated. "I trust Crowley, a lot more than I trust you right now. Corrine tried to kill me! Did you know that?"

"Yes, and your demon killed her! How can you be okay with that?"

"I have never once tried to govern what Crowley does. I know he's a demon and I know he has different methods. I accept him for what he is. I trust him to keep me safe. He didn't have to take me with him. He could've easily left me behind. He could've smoked out and saved himself. He's strong enough. But he didn't. He stayed with me, helped me, and brought me here where I could be safe until all of this is over. You have no idea what we've been through together, not at all!"

"Why is he even with you, anyway?" Rose demanded next. Murron froze, recalling the lie she'd fed Rose that day at the supermarket. Realization dawned in Rose's eyes and she began shaking her head in disbelief. "You _wanted_ him, didn't you? He was your demon deal! Murron, those stories we told you were meant to be cautionary! You weren't supposed to throw your soul away for _him_!"

"And yet here I am!" Murron cried, spreading her arms wide. "I am healthy and more learned than ever before! Yes, Rose, he healed me! I didn't even have to ask! He just went ahead and did it! Did you know I can also see hellhounds before my time? Because I can! He's given me so much in the meager two months we've been together. I'll never be able to repay him, not even when it's time for him to collect my soul!"

"How could you?" Rose moaned. "No demon is worth your soul! Murron! You have your health! You could get away now!"

"I said no!" Murron bit across her. "Get out of here, Rose, before I let him do to you what he did to Corrine!"

Rose gasped, genuinely surprised at Murron's words. "Murron!"

"Leave or I'll do it myself." Murron's fist clenched, her eyes taking on a reddish glow as the power swelled within her. The air around Rose began to shimmer, her skin beginning to erupt in first degree and second degree burns. Rose drew back from Murron's field of influence, clutching her scorched arms.

"For your sake, Murron, I pray you haven't made a mistake," Rose told her quietly, continuing to back away. "You could easily regret it."

"That's between me, myself, and I," Murron replied coldly. She kept her gaze on Rose's departing form, the other witch making good her escape down the road. Once she was out of sight, Murron relaxed her fist. The built-up heat drifted off her in a steam-hiss as she turned and went up the porch steps. As she reached the front door, it opened and Crowley appeared at the threshold. His face was solemn as he stepped aside to let her pass, closing the door behind her in silence.

Crowley never asked about Rose's appearance and if he'd heard Murron's defense of him, he kept it to himself. Though, sometimes over the course of the next two days, she caught him looking at her in this entirely new way. If she hadn't been denying it to herself, she could have sworn another wall had fallen between them. She felt the way his eyes followed her, particularly when he didn't realize she was watching him. She wanted to ask him what he was thinking about, but always she stopped herself. He'd deny everything, anyway, and she wasn't sure she could have her heart pulled in that many directions again.

One afternoon, while Crowley was gone to points unknown, Murron sat on the rear porch, a glass of iced tea in one hand and Growley's head pressed into the palm of the other. The sun was making its way towards the horizon, coloring the landscape of the sky a pearlescent pink. She gazed at the lazy clouds as they drifted along, her thoughts a wandering jumble. A dim memory that could have easily been a dream flitted in and out of her consciousness. She was in bed, it was the middle of the night, and the only light in the room came from the windows. She remembered opening her eyes for only a moment and looking towards the door, almost as if by instinct, and seeing what could have been Crowley's shadow staring into the room. Believing it was a trick of the light, she'd rolled over and gone back to sleep. But now, in her waking hours, she really had to wonder: had that really happened? And if so, what had he meant by it?

More and more she believed he'd overheard her speaking to Rose. She recalled his words from what felt like forever ago, how no one had ever stuck their neck out for _him_. He'd thanked her for it then and all she'd done at that point had been create the sigils. Since then, she'd trusted him enough to control her body not once, but twice, and to secure her safety when everything was blowing up around them. She wondered if she was his first true friend, and not one that was only looking out for what he could give them. She genuinely valued his company and his thoughts, however sparingly he shared the latter.

The only thing that really depressed her was the fact she knew those deeper feelings she fostered for him would never be returned and could possibly never be spoken aloud. However, she never once thought to hold it against him. As she'd told Rose, Crowley's methods were different and this surely extended to whatever emotions he might still possess. She didn't think him incapable of forming bonds with others if the interests were mutual - particularly survival or some kind of beneficial gain - which is what had happened with them. She'd done her share to keep him alive and he'd returned it in kind. Perhaps that was the best she could hope for. Perhaps it was all she really needed.

Still, she couldn't help wondering, wondering at that new look in his green eyes, wondering at how he assumed almost a sentry position around the house even with Growley there. He was waiting for something, that much she could sense. They were both waiting for it, waiting for the Apocalypse to be curbed and for their lives to regain some normality. Maybe he was there now, in secret, watching as it went down and would return shortly to report the result. Turning her gaze back to the sky, now a deeper rose hue, Murron wondered how quickly the end would come, if it would come at all.

The sound of the back door opening drew Murron from her thoughts; she twisted in her chair to see Crowley standing behind her. Growley rose and greeted his master, shoving his blue head into Crowley's slack hand. Murron's brow furrowed. "What is it?" she asked softly. Crowley's expression was difficult to decipher, the brilliant green of his eyes dimmed to a lackluster shade. "Crowley?"

"It's over," he intoned quietly. "The Apocalypse is over."

_The Apocalypse is over._

These words rang in Murron's ears long after Crowley had said them. She was in the bedroom upstairs, perched on the bed, her arms around her in a stabilizing self-hug. Crowley himself was elsewhere, taking Growley with him. He'd waited long enough for the news to sink in, then disappeared again. Murron had relocated to the bedroom to collect her thoughts. She'd been up there for three hours, still unable to wrap her mind around the truth.

Part of her felt it was almost too soon. Too easy. They'd spent weeks on the run, forever checking over their shoulders for Lucifer's followers. To have it all be over was almost too much to take in. What more, the end of the Apocalypse also potentially signaled the end of their time together, at least for the moment. Already she felt he was chomping at the bit to get back out there and scope the scene in Hell and elsewhere. She couldn't really blame him; his entire world revolved around his ability to do his job. With Lucifer gone, possibly his followers with him, Crowley could resume business. Yet that left her wondering: where did she fit into all this? They'd only gone through two and a half months of their year together; how frequently now would she see him? Where would he go? Back to Hell? Find another place to live? Where would she go? These questions and more burned in her mind, dragging her energy levels down with them.

Eventually, she succumbed to sleep, awakening only when she heard Crowley enter the bedroom. Lifting herself up, Murron turned anxious eyes to the demon king, following his every move as he approached the bed and sat beside her. Her gaze searched his face, partially hidden in shadow, her breath catching and holding in her chest. "Crowley?" she prompted softly, unable to keep the anxiety from her voice.

Crowley turned his head towards her, the heavy lids of his eyes lifting to meet her stare. "I want you to know, Murron, that I will not forget what you've done for me," he began, his voice as soft as hers. "It might not mean much coming from a demon, but thank you."

"Don't be silly, you know I -" Murron interrupted, almost afraid to hear his next words. He laid a gentle finger on her lips, stilling her words.

"Let me finish." He held her eyes for a moment, mutely asking for her silence, then removed his finger from her mouth. "Good girl. In return for your assistance, I'm willing to extend your contract to the full ten years. The same stipulations would apply." He paused, allowing Murron to absorb this. The full weight of his offer pressed down on her. Ten years. He'd be with her for ten years. A decade, with him. The enormity of the gesture brought tears to her eyes and they slid down her cheeks unchecked.

"What do you say?" Crowley asked, his hand sliding up her neck to cup the back of her head in his palm. He tilted his head, his gaze lowering to her parted lips, damp with her tears. He meant to seal the new deal with a kiss, she realized. Her heart leapt into her throat. Everything inside her screamed to take the new deal, to finally be kind to herself, to indulge in this amazing man's presence. More than that, she wanted to feel his mouth on hers again, deal or no deal. Unconsciously, Murron lifted her face to his, her eyes closing as the distance between them lessened.

But before she could feel the thrill of his lips on hers, to savor that fiery tingle she still recalled from the first night, she whispered, "I can't." Her throat constricted, cutting off her voice. Crowley drew from her slightly, his eyes searching hers. The separation, however meager, struck Murron like a physical pain and she pressed fumbling fingers against his jacketed chest. "I can't. I want to, but I can't. It wouldn't be fair. We've already decided on a deal. Why change it for me and no one else? It isn't fair."

"Murron," Crowley began, stopping when she shook her head quickly. She offered him a trembling smile, his face blurring through her tears. She blinked them away swiftly, not wanting to lose sight of him for even a second. She curled her fingers into the lapels of his suit jacket, unaware that she was pulling him towards her even as her eyes denied him. The amount of bravery pouring from them affected even the Crossroads King and he loosened his grip on her neck. "Are you sure about this?"

Murron gave a shaky laugh, thick with her sadness. "No, but I know it's the right thing to do. I can't keep you caged for ten years, Crowley. No one should. In the short time we've had together, you've given me more than anyone else I've ever known. Because of you, I'm a stronger person, a better witch. Because of you, I'm well again. But even for those reasons, I could never think to chain you to me. I've already leashed you to me for a year, a year we're already two months into. Please don't ask me to be that arrogant. I couldn't take it."

"You brave stupid thing," Crowley said, with that same note of teasing in his voice she'd grown to adore. "What the hell were you doing making a demon deal in the first place? You're not nearly selfish enough to."

"Oh, but I am," Murron replied wisely. "I am remarkably selfish." Her smile grew in strength, though pain still echoed in her eyes. "I was selfish enough to try for a king, wasn't I?"

Crowley smiled, though even his was tinged with something different. "Stupid woman," he said affectionately, pulling her to him. Murron fell into his embrace with a choking laugh, her arms folding and pressing against his chest. The hug was awkward and even a little uncomfortable, but to Murron, it felt like the warmest, safest place to be. "Stupid, stupid woman."

Murron unfurled her arms and wrapped them around his shoulders, burying her face into the space beside his neck. Yes, she was a stupid, stupid woman. But at least she was an honest one.


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

It was clear Murron couldn't stay at the house. Eventually, someone would come looking for the owners and the house would have to be claimed. Murron wasn't sure she wanted to be present when that happened. Her own house had probably been cinders for days now, but she tried not to think about that. She tried not to think about a lot of what she'd lost lately, or what she was about to lose.

It was strange. Crowley had never once said he'd stop coming to see her for the remainder of their deal. Even now, he didn't seem altogether certain what he was going to do now that Lucifer was out of the picture. Yet Murron couldn't shake the feeling in her gut that something would take him away and occupy the majority of his time. During the quiet moments, she could see the gears working behind Crowley's eyes, a scheme to reaffirm his position in Hell formulating in his brain. She'd watch as the myriad of thoughts passed over his face, sometimes as a devious smile, other times as a perplexed frown. He kept characteristically mum about whatever he was plotting and Murron knew better than to ask. In truth, she was quite preoccupied with her own predictament as to where she'd live from now on.

It seemed, however, that Crowley was, as ever, one step ahead of her: a few days after the Apocalypse ended, he took her aside and, without warning, teleported them away. They reappeared in front of a rather nice cottage situated on a lush piece of land with a forest just behind it. While Murron stood, positively agog, Crowley went up to the front door, fumbled with the latch for a moment, then gestured for her to go inside. She followed him slowly, her head turning to take in the scenery as she walked.

"Where did you get this?" she breathed. Before he could respond, Murron was exclaiming over the interior of the cottage. The structure was very Old World, which pleased her immensely. Her old house, while done in the style of a cottage, had lacked the homey country charms a proper cottage did. And, as in her previous home, the walls were covered in Scottish heritage decor, including a Guthrie family crest she'd never seen before. She stepped up to it, reaching out to gingerly touch the smooth velvet surface. "How in the world...?"

Crowley stood back, hands comfortably in his pockets, a satisfied smile on his face. "Best to never underestimate just how much I truly know, darling. Been around for a long, long time."

"Far be it from me to look a gift demon in the mouth!" Murron laughed, delighted. "Thank you, this is very generous of you, Crowley." She turned a beaming smile to him. He shrugged nonchalantly.

"Just looking after my investment, blah blah blah," he trailed off with feigned disinterest, then offered her a wink and teasing smile. "I'd also like a comfortable place to land," he added almost as a disclaimer. Murron chuckled.

"Planning on crashing a lot?" she asked playfully. Crowley's smile turned wry, his lips pressing together pensively. "Crowley, what are you thinking about doing? Really."

"What, are you worried about me?" Crowley asked, bouncing back from his brief moment of self-doubt. "No need for that anymore. Lucifer's gone, stuffed back into his Cage, and Hell needs a new leader. I already have leadership experience, after all, and frankly, I'm the only one left from the old guard that actually has a brain."

"So, you're going to go from public enemy number one to the new Devil?" Murron prompted, a little dubiously. Crowley smirked.

"No, not the 'new Devil'. Don't be stu- foolish. No, I'll do a better job at it. I'm smarter, for one thing. I also know what it takes to stay alive in case you hadn't noticed."

"Oh no, I've noticed! You are quite adept at that, no questions about it!" Murron agreed with an enthusiastic nod. She put her hands on her hips, head angling back to take him in. "Well, I wish you all the luck in the world with this one, Crowley. You might need it. Still," she added with a gracious smile, "we already know a crown suits you."

"Precisely," Crowley replied with a small bow, grinning from ear to ear. "It will take me away for an indeterminate amount of time, but I suspect you've already figured that out. However, I have no intention of leaving you improperly armed." He reached behind his back theatrically, winked, and produced a large leather-bound tome. It looked positively ancient, certainly a lot older than any book Murron had ever seen. He presented it to her, nodding encouragingly when she hesitated to accept it. Murron held the book in both hands, marveling at the craftsmanship. She opened it gingerly, gasping to see the brilliantly illuminated vellum pages. The text was inscribed in Latin, as well as a symbolic language she couldn't decipher.

"What's this?" she asked, pointing at the strange characters. Crowley craned his neck to peer at the page she referred to.

"That's Enochian. Yeah, you'll be wanting to learn that if you're to use this effectively."

"Enochian? The angelic language?" Murron repeated, stunned. He nodded. "What is this book?"

"It's my grimoire. Everything I know is in that book. It's a loan, you understand, so don't go thinking it'll go down with you like some Egyptian burial rubbish. Also, if you could avoid using it near open flame, that'd be fantastic."

"I'll be very careful with it, thank you, Crowley," Murron assured him, closing the tome and hugging it to her chest gently. "I really have to up the ante to match today's generousity, don't I?"

"The cottage and the grimoire can be considered freebies. I don't think there's much you could do to match them, I'm afraid."

"A demonic Book of Shadows," Murron whispered, looking down at it again. "I don't know how I'll manage to absorb it all, even with the time I have left."

"You'll manage, I'm sure," Crowley remarked. "One thing, though."

"Yes?"

He gestured at the book. "There's some blank pages in the back. If you could add those sigils you made, that'd be excellent. You never know when I might need them again."

"You want _me_ to add to _your_ grimoire?" Murron was stunned. Crowley nodded slowly, as if explaining something to a very dim-witted child. Murron was too bewildered to take offense. "Of course I'll include it. I'd be honored to."

"Figured you might be," Crowley remarked casually. "You'll find a very well-stocked pantry of magical goodies downstairs in the cellar. Altar to work on and everything. I can't have my favorite witch running out of virgin's blood, now can I?"

Murron rolled her eyes. "Now you're just teasing me again."

"Believe what you will. But there really is virgin's blood down there. Some of those spells call for it."

Murron laughed, thankful he'd chosen to take her real meaning the 'wrong way'. She was burning red enough to guide ships home in thick fog as it was. "Then I'm glad you've thought of everything. Never know who's a virgin these days, anyway."

"Cheeky. Love it," Crowley grinned appreciatively. They shared a brief moment's comfortable silence, then Crowley pat his jacket front down. "I'm afraid I must be off now. I'm sure it's absolute chaos down there. You enjoy your new toys, darling, and, as always: don't wait up." He delivered the last line with an impish wink and blinked from sight.

Murron, still reeling from the bevy of surprises, simply sighed, looked around herself at her new home, and started for the cellar stairs, eager to inspect her 'pantry'.

The entire sublevel of the cottage was filled top to bottom with all sorts of magical things. The altar he'd spoken of was a grand affair, easily something out of an elaborate fantasy production. Candles were everywhere: on every available surface, bolted to the walls, and dangling from the wood beams above. Anything she could have ever wanted or needed was readily provided to her in countless well-stocked cabinets and chests. The center of the cellar had been cleared, mimicking a kind of "audience" space, perhaps for summoned things.

Set a ways apart from the altar was a lecturn with a tall stool beside it. An ink pot and quill sat upon the lecturn itself, suggesting it would be there that Murron added her own spells to Crowley's grimoire. She brought the tome to the stand and carefully laid it over the polished wood surface. She was no expert at dating books, but this one had to be at least a handful of centuries old. It then occurred to her she had no idea how old Crowley truly was or who he'd been in life. She recalled the day after the deal, how he'd been preoccupied with acquiring a meat-suit with an accent. Strange how she'd never thought to bring it up in conversation during those slow days before the Apocalypse ended. Though, to be fair, she'd had a trifle more on her mind at the time. Perhaps when he came back, she'd bring it up. Until then, she had plenty to keep herself busy.

Murron sat in the cellar well into the evening when the familiar tramp of feet on the ceiling sounded above. She smiled quietly to herself, remaining where she sat scribbling the instructions for the sigils into the grimoire. Yet, as she half-listened to the footsteps upstairs, something struck her as distinctly 'off'. Carefully, she replaced the quill into the inkwell and slipped from the stool. Creeping up to the cellar stairs, Murron craned her neck to look up at the closed basement door. "Crowley?" she called. "Is that you?"

The heavy tramp of the now-foreign footsteps thundered towards the cellar door. Suddenly, it was yanked open violently and a strange man's face appeared around the frame. Murron immediately was on alert, her muscles tensing as she focused her power into her hands.

"I wouldn't try it, witch!" the man sneered, brandishing a knife her way threateningly. Murron glared up at him, fists clenching.

"Who the hell are you?" she demanded hotly. The man grinned, an ugly expression that twisted his face. "How did you find this place?"

"Not hard when you're tracking a demon. Is that what you are? A demon's whore? Cause I think you are," he taunted. "Because me and my boys -"

"Boys!" Murron interrupted, eyes widening. There were more of them?

"Yes, my boys," the man continued. "We've been trackin' your little boyfriend, Crowley, for awhile now. He's a big fish, you know. Be doing the whole world a favor by snuffing him out." He licked the blade of his knife perversely. Murron shuddered, thoroughly disgusted.

"And let me guess," she began coldly, "you think by taking me hostage he'll come for me? You don't know Crowley very well. Or me, for that matter."

"You saying he won't come for you, eh?" the man asked, crouching on the top step and jiggling the knife blade towards her. "I know he can hear you through that coin you're wearin'. Oh yeah, we know all about them things. Heard it from the best hunters around, how they're used to keep tabs on us good folk."

Murron pressed her hand to the coin protectively, almost as if to try and muffle the sounds around her. Crowley didn't need to be bothered by this. Besides, he'd given her the grimoire to help protect herself, as well as the knowledge he'd already granted her. The best thing to do now was clean up these hunters - for hunters they were - and work on securing the cottage.

"If you're smart, you and your 'boys' will leave my house," Murron hissed. Her eyes flared as the internal fire roared to life within her. The hunter finally had the sense to appear on his guard, fingers curling around the knife's handle tightly. "Before I give myself a reason to vacuum my new carpets."

"Think you're clever, witch? C'mon! Let's see how you feel about a little bite of silver!" The hunter lunged down the stairs. Murron had a split second to react. She rolled her back across the wall beside the stairs, wincing as the hunter's knife caught her bare shoulder. Her skin hissed where the blade hit and for a moment, she was stunned. Silver never used to hurt her; apparently, she'd crossed over into black magic territory after selling her soul and using destructive spells. So much for her nice silver earrings!

Murron hurried deeper into the cellar, the hunter not far behind. She reached out to clutch the grimoire in her hands as she passed the lecturn, swearing she'd die before the hunters got hold of it. "Sorry, Crowley, I know I said I wouldn't use it near an open flame, but -" she muttered towards the coin, then threw her hand out to summon flames at the hunter as he rounded the corner. Immediately, he caught fire and, screaming, flailed about the cellar for a few moments before finally collapsing to the ground as a pile of black ash. Murron hastened to hide the grimoire in one of the chests, then rushed upstairs to take care of the dead hunter's friends.

The sound of pained screams met her as she ascended the stairs. The front door was open and she could see Crowley's silhouette against the bonfire that had once been the other hunter's companions. Murron balked in the doorway for a moment, surprised to see he'd actually come. Sensing her eyes on him, Crowley turned and offered her a pleased smile.

"Honey, I'm home!" he greeted pleasantly. "Don't suppose you went grocery shopping while I was gone?"

Murron sighed, relaxing against the door. "Why'd you come? I could've handled it."

Crowley shrugged and, stepping over the smoldering pile that had been two bodies, walked up the stairs and stood beside her in the doorway. "It was on the way," he replied, smirking as though it was the most natural thing in the world to incinerate hunters in the middle of the street. "Also," he added, tapping the tip of her nose with a finger, "didn't do it for you. I don't need trash like that around my safehouse. Bad enough some of Lucifer's little servants are still kicking around downstairs."

"But you did hear them, right?" Murron pressed, following Crowley when he moved further into the house. He went into the kitchen and started opening and closing the cupboards, clearly looking for something. "They were tracking you!" she continued, pushing past him to the right cabinet and pulling his Craig down. He accepted it with a delighted grin and poured himself a measure of it into a glass. "And me, for that matter!"

Crowley calmly enjoyed his drink, seemingly disinterested in her panic. Murron waited, her nerves only slightly fraying from the anticipation. When he'd finished, he put the glass down on the counter and turned a patient gaze towards her. "Yes, I heard them. And what else is new? People are always going to be after me and you, darling, because in case you've forgot, you're a witch and hunters hunt witches as much as they do demons. When a demon and a witch are in cahoots, well, the goody-goodies tend to get their panties in a bunch. Why do you think I gave you my grimoire? You'll have to learn to defend yourself from all threats, not just demons. Hunters are your new worst enemy, so get used to this kind of thing. So," he slid a fingertip from between her breasts to the underside of her chin swiftly, making her jump, "I suggest you get to warding."

Murron ignored the lingering sensation of his touch, shaking her head as if to clear it. "You're certainly all business again, aren't you?" she observed. Crowley nodded as he poured himself another glass.

"Yes, I am. The king is dead, long live the king! Time for a new successor, a new vision." He curled the glass towards his chest, tapping himself with it. "My vision. I've lived under the thumb of my superiors for centuries. Now it's my turn to twist some screws." He wandered into the living room and sat down on the plush green sofa with a satisfied sigh. Murron followed after and sat beside him as he continued. "Lucifer's ways are too old-fashioned, you see. Hell needs new direction if it's going to survive into the next century or ten. I have big plans for Hades, love. Big plans!"

"And you're saying you have support in Hell?"

Crowley shook his head emphatically. "Not a single one. Yet." He gave her a sage nod and tipped his glass to her. "I'll get them soon enough. I didn't get to be King of the Crossroads on my looks alone, oh no. I had to scrape and bow and beg before I got to where I am now. I'll win them over. I have a way to keep more souls in Hell, where they belong, not shuffling about up here where hunters can get to them."

"Are you referring to demons? To their creation?" Murron asked.

"Demons are, basically, twisted human souls. How do they get twisted, you ask? Torture. Plain and simple. Oh, Hell'll still be a place of torture, but it'll be a slow torture. Demons won't spawn as quickly with my methods like they did with Alastair's. What once took a mere two centuries will now take double that with my new vision."

"And this is what I have to look forward to? Slow torture?"

Crowley smirked, exasperated. "You signed up for this, remember? You should be kissing my ass for doing it differently. If it had been Alastair's way, you would be begging for my reign. Trust me, darling. I'm doing you a favor."

"And you're certain you can pull this off?"

"I am."

"Okay, then. Once again, I'm entrusting my soul to you, aren't I?"

"No safer place for it."

"Not touching that one," Murron laughed. "Oh, Crowley, you're one of a kind. You know that?" She looked at him, warmth in her eyes. Crowley winked, but said nothing, and took another gulp of his Craig. The urge to lay her head on his shoulder was strong, but she held back. Despite their last night at the house in Kansas, she'd been careful not to grow overly familiar. Crowley certainly never made any advances, nor did she expect him to. Suddenly, she recalled his offer of making things 'interesting' and blushed, chuckling under her breath. He glanced at her sidelong.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's not important."

"You're a terrible liar, Murron."

"I know."

They fell silent, though the unspoken tension hung in the air around them just the same. Crowley gave a small half-shrug and murmured, almost too casually, "The offer still stands, just so you know."

"I will keep that in mind, Crowley, thank you," she replied tightly. He grinned into his drink. "On that uncomfortable note, I'm for bed. If I'm to expect unexpected guests like this often, I'd best get ready to defend myself, starting with a proper night's sleep for once. No impending doom means I sleep a lot better."

"Can't argue with that," Crowley agreed, saluting with his glass and draining the remainder of the Craig. "Sleep tight, love."

"And you, if you decide to," Murron called back over her shoulder as she walked up the stairs. As she neared the bedroom, she shook her head, laughing softly to herself. Apparently, planning to take over Hell had put him into a very good mood if he was teasing her again. She smiled, pleased. Good. She'd been missing that side of him.

Still smiling to herself, Murron walked gratefully into her new bedroom and closed the door on a very bizarre day.


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

A month had passed since the end of the near-Apocalypse. As before, Crowley came and went as he pleased and Murron returned to her craft studies. The grimoire Crowley had given her kept her busy long into the night as she absorbed the wonders within its pages. She'd already laid out the instructions for the blood sigils as he'd requested, including the means to make these sigils 'invisible'. Most sigils, as she understood them, were meant to be created, then burned or cast out, as the intention was meant to be the only thing left behind. However, those methods only worked for non-protective intentions; still, she added that footnote in, if only for her own satisfaction.

She wondered at Crowley's possession of such a thing as the grimoire. Had he been a dabbler in life? Or had he acquired it from another practioner somewhere along the way? She made a mental note to ask him when he came back. The thought brought her back to something he'd said in the very beginning, how a meat-suit with an accent had been important. She couldn't be sure if he'd be feeling open enough with her should she ask, but it never hurt to try.

The opportunity to press for further information presented itself a week later. Crowley had been gone for an extended period, presumably still securing Hell for himself, and returned looking more than a little worn out. He collapsed onto the sofa, flopping his head back as Murron fetched him a glass of Craig. His eyes were closed when she returned from the kitchen; he held out his hand for the drink, grunting a 'thanks' when she pressed it into his palm and sat down herself.

Murron studied him for a few moments, debating whether or not it was a good time to talk about her suspicions. She'd start slow, then. "Rough day?" she asked conversationally. Crowley smirked briefly, licking his lips free of the lingering drops of whisky. "I'll take that as a yes?"

"Mm."

"Should I leave you alone?"

"Please yourself, love."

"You sure that's a good thing to say to me?" Murron teased, hoping to perk him up a little bit. This produced a tired smile from the demon king. It was a start. "So, I was curious about something..."

"Why do I suddenly regret something I don't remember doing?"

Murron smothered a giggle at that. "It's harmless, I promise."

"Well, that's no fun, then."

"You're a ball of contradictions, you know that?"

"Been called worse." Crowley opened one eye and looked over at her. "What're you on about?"

"You said once a meat-suit with an accent was important," Murron began carefully, sensing she might be treading dangerous ground. "Are you ready to tell me why now or will I spend the rest of my brief life in suspense?"

"I suppose you've earned it," Crowley conceded, opening both eyes and shifting further up the sofa cushions. He exhaled, as if readying himself for something he didn't reveal lightly, and twisted to face her a bit more. "This does not leave this house, or your pretty head, do you understand?"

Murron heard the warning note in his voice and nodded quickly. "Take it to the grave."

"No, you'll take it to the ends of the universe and be the wiser for it," Crowley corrected, pointing a steady finger at her nose. Whatever he had to tell her was clearly serious; she looked down at the threatening digit inches from her face and nodded again, this time solemnly. He held her gaze for a moment more, green eyes flashing, then lowered his hand slowly. "I can't have my enemies knowing this, so should you ever feel like turning betrayer -"

"Give me some credit, Crowley," Murron interrupted, smirking.

"Trust no one, darling," Crowley advised sagely. "Not even me, though I know you do. It's a damned foolish thing to do, too."

"I'll reserve judgment on that, thanks."

"And I'll still call you a fool for it," Crowley repeated. "But as I said, I think you've earned it. You'll not get the whole story from me tonight, but I'll give you a taste."

"Whetting my appetite, are you?"

"I'd keep that saucy tongue of yours in your head unless you plan on using it for more interesting things."

"I'll be quiet."

"Good." He cleared his throat. "The accent was a bonus. I was more interested in this particular man for what he could do. He held a position of small power and had a measure of prestige that I could use in my favor. He provided an ample foundation that I naturally made better and went from there. But as to why it could be considered a bonus, it's because I am - was - Scottish."

"Really?" Murron couldn't keep the delight from her voice. She leaned her elbow on the back of the sofa, resting her head in her hand. "You were interesting before; now you're just fascinating."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," Crowley grinned. "I thought you might like that, being Scottish yourself."

"What was your name? Or is that too much information for one night?"

Crowley cupped her chin with two fingers, lifting her face towards his. "No sense in spoiling the entire mystery, is there?"

Murron smiled, admittedly enjoying the feel of his skin on hers. "No, I suppose not. I'll be a good girl and accept what I've been given. Thank you for sharing."

"You might have to do a bit more to earn the rest," Crowley said suggestively. He released her chin, his fingers trailing down her neck and coming to a rest at the base of her throat. He smiled, seemingly pleased by the flush in her cheeks, its rosy tint blossoming across her collarbone as well. "Could you? Is your curiousity so aroused?"

Murron couldn't help the shiver that rolled over her. He had to choose that word, didn't he? "Anything worth having is worth waiting for," she managed, swallowing past the heat in her throat. "And I'm patient."

"Are you?" Crowley pressed, shaping small circles with a fingertip across her skin. When she didn't respond, he chuckled good-naturedly and withdrew his teasing hand. He leaned back again, grinning like a cat that'd had the canary. "You are an endless source of amusement, love, and you take it so well. Cheers."

Murron took a moment to regain her poise, willing the burning warmth in the pit of her stomach to cool before it could spread to less innocent places. "I can't give as good as I get, but I do try."

"No, you'll never be able to make me speechless," Crowley nodded, not the least bit apologetic. "It is fun to watch you try, though."

"I aim to please," Murron replied, then immediately regretted it. The gleam in his eye returned and he angled himself a bit closer to her as if aiming to unsettle her again. She pushed against his shoulder lightly, laughing when he did. "Terrible, horrible man. You should feel bad for putting me through so much." But she smiled as she said this, as ever grateful for his company, moreso for his good humor. It had been absent for too long while they'd been on the run. Even if she was always the butt of the jokes he'd pull, she didn't mind. Still, being teased like this was exhausting!

"Well, I appreciate the bit of honesty," Murron remarked, rising from the sofa and making for the stairs. "I'll be sure to reflect on it appropriately. Will you be here in the morning?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Crowley replied. "I have something brewing; might have to disappear for awhile again."

"No less than expected. Good night, then, Crowley," Murron gave him a small wave as she ascended the stairs and went into the welcoming darkness of her bedroom.

Murron's eyes fluttered open. Something had coaxed her awake; sitting up, she cast a bleary look about the dark room. Her head still heavy with sleep, she eventually laid it back down onto the pillows, confident it had been nothing. As she turned onto her side, tucking her hands beneath her cool pillow, she felt something touch her back. She looked over her shoulder, squinting at Crowley's shadowy face. The faint light that peeped through the heavy curtains caught his eyes, illuminating them enough for her to see the altered expression hidden there. She opened her mouth to speak, only to be silenced by his sudden kiss.

Murron started, then melted into the kiss, twisting onto her back and wrapping her arms around his neck. Crowley bent over her, his hands snaking beneath her back and gripping her almost painfully. Together, they rolled to the center of the bed till Murron was partially on top of him. His suit jacket was gone, as was his tie. The collar of his shirt was open almost to the middle of his chest and the black hair that curled there tickled her skin as she pressed against him. His fingers went up the length of her back, catching the hem of her camisole and pulling it up towards her shoulders. The kiss deepened as Murron's hands disappeared inside Crowley's open shirt, savoring the feel of him.

They broke apart briefly, Murron breathless from the intensity of the kiss. She let Crowley strip her of her top, just as he let her do the same for him. They rolled together once more, arms entwined together in a clutching embrace, their lips meeting again and again. Murron moaned into the kiss when she felt his hands slide down her hips, catching the waistband of her sleep pants in his fingers and relieving her of another layer of clothing. She heard the click of his belt buckle, the cool swish of leather against fabric as he slipped it from its loops and cast it aside. In an instant, the length of his naked body pressed against hers, his knee wedging between her thighs. Murron obliged, lost in the sensation of his tongue playing over hers, of his weight pinning her to the bed, the feel of his burning flesh on hers. One final layer of fabric lay between them; this he freed her from as well. Now fully exposed to the other, they lay in a writhing embrace, fingers grasping, clutching at hot skin, his hands tangling in her hair, hers holding the back of his head so as to deepen the already intense kiss.

Almost as if by its own magic, their bodies joined and Murron arched against him, sighing in longing. Crowley bent his head to her neck, lips moving down her skin with the same slow deliberance as his hips. She curled her legs around his waist, holding him to her as tightly as she could. The scent of him overwhelmed her, even the sulfur smell becoming an intoxicating thing as it joined the taste of whisky lingering her tongue, his voice heavy in her ears. His breath stirred the hair beside her ear, his lips forming her name.

"Murron..."

_Murron..._

"Murron!"

The sudden outcry of her name sent Murron all but leaping from the bed. Gripping the blanket to her chest, she turned wild eyes on Crowley. He stood in the doorway, one arm leaning casually on the wooden frame, and an expression of perplexed curiousity on his face. Her eyes traveled to his other hand, blinking to see he was holding a cup of tea. Her tea.

"Plan on sleeping all bloody day?" he asked, wiggling the cup towards her slightly. "It's gone cold. I can't be sitting around waiting for you to wake up when I've got an Underworld to take over."

"What?" she choked out. "No! No, I'm sorry. I'll get up. Why are you even waiting, anyway?"

"Because there's something you should know. Get up and come downstairs." With that, he turned away from the doorway and disappeared. Murron, the dim memory of a dream still clouding her thoughts, threw back the covers and got up to fetch her robe. Whatever she'd dreamed about had left her knees strangely weak and her heart beating a mile a minute. She frowned at these little mysteries as she made her way down.

Crowley was in the kitchen, his back to the counter, when she walked in. A fresh cup of tea sat on the table; she went to it and lowered herself into the chair, looking up at him expectantly. "What's going on?"

"I've been putting my feelers out lately and it seems my spies have some across something you might be interested in," Crowley began. "There's a coven of white witches near here and they've got your scent."

Murron balked. "What? How?"

"Those hunters who came for you, I'd wager. Being wrapped up in the future King of Hell isn't going to make you any friends, as I'm sure you've figured out."

"Are you suggesting they'd come for me?"

Crowley shrugged. "I wouldn't give them the chance if I were you. Best to nip this problem in the bud before it spreads."

Murron sighed, pressing her face into her hand wearily. "Great. First Corrine, now this."

"You kind of did this to yourself," Crowley pointed out with another shrug. Murron glanced at him, for a moment unsure of what he meant. Then it dawned on her and she frowned.

"Do all of your clients deal with this or am I just lucky?" she asked.

"Just lucky, I guess. You'll be fine. Plenty of ways to get rid of Glindas, right there." He nodded towards the cellar, indicating his grimoire. Murron tapped her lower lip thoughtfully for a moment, recalling a few rather nasty hexbag recipes.

"Do you know where they are?"

Crowley gestured, producing a sheet of paper and handing it to her. "Addresses and associates, all right there."

Murron inspected the paper. It listed at least four witches and anyone connected to them. "Very thorough," she remarked. "Guess I know what I'm doing today. How about you? Still going to check on that thing you had, what was it? Brewing?"

"Indeed. There's a nest of Lucifer loyalists I need to take out before they round up further support against me. Seems we both have prices on our heads."

"So it would seem," Murron agreed grimly. She stood up from the table and started for the cellar door. Crowley cleared his throat, causing her to turn. He looked pointedly at the untouched cup of tea still on the table. Murron chuckled, went back the few steps to the table, and retrieved the cup. "Wouldn't want to waste this, now would I?"

"Not if you know what's good for you," Crowley returned, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. "Good luck, love."

"You, too."

Crowley vanished from sight just as Murron closed the basement door. It'd be a busy day for both of them.


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Crowley materialized in a dark forest populated by ancient towering trees. He squinted curiously, reaching out with his senses. He wasn't even in America anymore; these were the sprawling forestlands of Europe.

The crunch of underbrush made the demon king turn, and Crowley saw one of his supporters appear from behind a thicket of smaller trees. "Mr. Crowley," the other greeted, nodding respectfully. "I'm glad you could make it. We need your assistance with this one."

"You're being vague, Melchiah," Crowley replied, a dangerous edge in his voice. "That is unwise. Speak plainly."

"This is bigger than we originally thought, sir," Melchiah explained, falling into step beside his superior. Melchiah spoke quickly, his voice low. "I'm afraid this might be difficult. The nest is more like a stronghold, with more demons than we thought. I'm surprised there are even this many left after Lucifer's armies were decimated."

"Apparently, they weren't all eliminated if we're here now," Crowley pointed out blandly. "And stronghold? How big are we talking?"

"It's...well, you'll have to see for yourself," Melchiah replied, grimacing uneasily. Crowley lifted his chin, eyes narrowing once more. "I can't even begin to describe it. I know you don't like being left in the dark, sir, but in this case, I have no choice but to let it speak for itself."

"Come on, man, it can't be all that - bloody hell!" Crowley's bravado abandoned him as he and Melchiah emerged from the forest into a great clearing. "It's a fucking castle!"

"Yes, I'm afraid it is," Melchiah echoed grimly, eyeing the massive stone edifice. "We've already tried to breach its outer walls. No dice. It's heavily guarded, with far more demons than we have altogether. I don't know how we're going to do this one."

Crowley said nothing. He was studying the obstacle before him with critical eyes. Unlike most castles in Europe, this one was in remarkably good condition. It still possessed the full measure of outer curtain walls, plus four towers, and all of its fortified gates. He could make out a dozen or more demons patrolling the area, each armed with what appeared to be medieval weapons. Whoever lived in this keep was old, old enough to have shirked the modern comforts of the North American continent, as well as its modern methods of defense. No demon visible to them was dressed in the manner they'd all become accustomed. Many seemed to be clad simply, as though they didn't feel they needed protection. Yes, whoever they faced now was very, very old, indeed.

"How did this escape our notice?" Crowley turned to Melchiah.

"You mean why wasn't this piece on the board during the Apocalypse?" Melchiah supplied. He shook his head. "No idea. We only know they're loyal to Lucifer."

"There's not a single major player in Hell that I didn't know. I was Lilith's top man, for God's sake!" Crowley snapped. "How is it this bastard has managed to stay out of Hell for so long?"

"We don't even know who it _is_, sir!" Melchiah protested. "That's what we needed you here for. If anyone can breach those walls, it's you. You have a title in Hell still, even when you turned traitor."

"Mind your tongue," Crowley warned. "But you might have a point. All right. You lot stay behind; I'll let you know if I need you."

"Sir."

Crowley took another look at the beast before him, shored up his best salesman skills, and vanished.

The demons guarding the main gate immediately lowered their weapons - halberds - when Crowley appeared at the end of the bridge. He levelled them with a mocking stare. "Hello, boys. Is the master in?"

"You have no business here," the guard on the right snarled. "Off with you."

"That's only a little impolite," Crowley remarked coolly. "You know who I am, don't you?"

"A traitor," the left-hand guard replied, baring his teeth. "One we should kill on sight."

"But you won't because you know I'll kill you first," Crowley grinned, raising his hand slightly. The pair lowered their weapons. "Good. Now. Let me in."

Reluctantly, the guards made way for Crowley, who gave them a patronizing smile as he passed between them. The gate's heavy portculis lifted with a grating squeal, ending with a thunderous _thoom_ when it struck the archway. Another line of armed guards watched Crowley with wary eyes as he moved further into the fortress. He ignored them. Despite their master's apparent strength, these demons were still beneath Crowley's power and as such, could be subjugated if they tried anything. They seemed to be aware of this, too, for they kept their positions, hands gripping their individual weapons so tightly they shook. Crowley smiled. Good. They were afraid. That would make his taking over all the easier.

He passed through the wide courtyard, also populated by demons boasting nasty-looking weaponry; these, too, kept their distance. The power Crowley wielded in Hell surrounded him and trailed in his wake, touching all who might consider taking a leap at him. It stilled them as much as it angered them. It was like moving through a pack of wild dogs, all waiting for the alpha to give the signal to attack. They trembled, muscles tense, eager to tear the offending demon king limb from limb. But they couldn't. This truth fueled Crowley's confidence. The master that dwelt here couldn't be as powerful as all that if they insisted on employing lesser demons.

However, when Crowley neared the center of the castle, a swarthy young woman emerged from a side entrance and approached him. Like animals identifying themselves by scent, she and Crowley blinked, revealing their individual ranks through their eyes. To his surprise, hers were white to his crossroads red. Then he smiled. "Almost didn't recognise you, love. How've you been, Jezebeth?"

Jezebeth favored him with a pinched smile, clearly unimpressed. "I think the time for small talk is over, Crowley. You have no right to be here, you know that."

"On the contrary, darling, I have every right to be here."

"Because you think you can take Lucifer's place?"

"No. I know I can. Who rules here?"

Jezebeth's almond-shaped eyes widened. "You really don't know?" She laughed, a dark, husky sound. "You're slipping, Crossroads King."

Crowley frowned. "Who is it, Jezebeth."

"Come in and see for yourself," she offered, stepping aside and stretching one slender arm towards the final gate. "He sent me out here to escort you in. He's very eager to meet you, Crowley."

"And I, him," Crowley replied smoothly. He followed after Jezebeth, maintaining a cool veneer of nonchalance so as not to betray the anxiety he genuinely felt. The change in power was palpable the moment they passed into the center chamber. It weighed down on Crowley's shoulders as though invisible hands clutched at him, pressing him into the stone floor. Jezebeth seemed unaffected by this, for she continued her sultry saunter up to the head of the room. On a dais sat an imposing man with caramel skin and dark, almost black, eyes. He was dressed in all white, the linen fabric of the top and pants loose around his body. Strange tattoo patterns lined the ridges of his cheekbones, rising up to encircle his brow bone and converge in the center of his forehead. Gold rings sparkled on his slender fingers as they rested calmly upon the arms of the great throne he reclined in. At the sight of Crowley, his mouth twitched into a disgusted frown.

"You have a lot of nerve, coming here," he intoned, his voice deep and booming as it echoed throughout the high-ceiled chamber. "Do you know who I am?"

Crowley paused a few feet from the dais, hands now in his pockets as he regarded the imposing figure before him. "No, I'm afraid not."

"You carry the title of a king and yet you know about as much as a whore who kneels between its thighs," the man mocked. He leaned forward in his throne. "You are weak, Crowley. Or should I simply call you by your Christian name?"

"Not if you want to survive this," Crowley warned. At that, the other laughed sharply.

"Such bravado. I'll enjoy killing you."

"Look, as much as I enjoy this particular brand of dick-waving, I'm not here to trade witticisms with you," Crowley said, glaring at his enemy. "Identify yourself."

This prompted the other man to rise from his throne. Immediately, the torches and floor candlebras began to flicker and blow themselves out. Lightning raged overhead, creating a strobe effect in the chamber as great shadowy wings erupted against the rear wall. "I am the Keeper of the Secrets, the General of Hell's Armies!" the man boomed, steadily moving down the length of the room, his wings maintaining their form. "I am Baal, second only to Lucifer himself, and you will surrender this pathetic crusade to take over Hell!"

Crowley stood frozen to the spot. He'd heard of Baal. Like Lucifer, Baal had fallen from Heaven during the original angel war. He'd stood beside Lucifer against God and the other angels, only to share in his fate. Angels in Hell, fallen or not, maintained their Grace, though it was twisted and fostered only destructive magic. Baal was stronger than Crowley, strong enough to kill him with a single thought. Few things terrified the Crossroads King more than angels, even those who would share his domain.

"You are not fit to rule Hell, Crowley," Baal continued. "You think your 'title' - a self-proclaimed one if I recall - entitles you to the throne? No, crossroads demon, no tormented soul will ever take that esteemed place where my brother, Lucifer, once sat!"

"You might be an angel, Baal, but where were you when Lucifer needed you?" Crowley challenged. He was playing with fire, he knew, but he wasn't going to stand there and let this jumped-up choirboy play with him like a cat with a mouse. "I at least had the balls to take my stand and keep by it; you? You hid here, in your little castle and pretended like nothing happened, is that it?"

"Had Lucifer needed me, I would have been there," Baal replied, undaunted by Crowley's words. "I know what befell my brother, what caused his downfall. And I know you aided them, those vessels. Those...Winchesters. How my brothers believed they would bow to their fate is beyond my comprehension; surely they, above all others, knew humans were fallible. Flawed. Damaged. Not fit to contain the glory that was offered to them."

"Maybe so, but those 'flawed' and 'damaged' humans still kicked your brothers' ass if I recall," Crowley reminded him. "They might not be my favorite people, either, but I regret nothing when I helped them. Lucifer would have ended me and my kind. I love myself too much for that to happen. Which is why I won't let you try, either." Crowley took a step closer to the angel, who still displayed his wings like a peacock attempting to woo a disinterested mate. "I will have Hell, Baal, with or without your approval. Although, last I checked, I didn't need it in the first place. I'm a demon, _angel_, and I always get what I want, one way or another."

"You are inviting a war you cannot possibly hope to win, demon," Baal replied, his voice dangerously soft. "I have all the legions of Hell at my command and you have, what, a handful of lesser demons? Oh yes, I know what you have in your corner, Crowley. Not even your former crossroads demons are backing you. How that must wound."

"As if I need those punks," Crowley sneered. "Demons will follow anyone with a big enough cock, which, in case you've forgotten, I traded my soul for. No one's got a bigger one than me, angel, no matter what 'suit' I put on."

"You trade schoolyard insults with me, demon, and expect to win this?" Baal gave a derisive chuckle. "Oh yes, I will enjoy destroying you."

"Then what're you waiting for? An invitation?" Crowley bit back, eyes flashing to their true color. Heat rolled off him in waves; the runner carpet they both stood on began to smoke beneath Crowley's feet. "You're not getting Hell, Baal. Not while I still breathe."

"You bite off more than you can chew, demon," Baal informed him quietly. "But I suppose that is simply your nature." He raised his hand towards Crowley, who went on the defensive immediately, and curled his fingers into his palm slowly.

The pain that gripped Crowley's gut doubled him over, blood spilling from between his lips. He fell to his knees, the fire gone out of him as he writhed on the cold stone floor, clutching at his middle. Baal twisted his clawed hand slowly, deliberately, as he spoke in low tones heavy with ennui.

"If you insist on continuing this pathetic facade, demon, I suggest you crawl back into that hole you came out of and think about what you're doing. This will not end well for you. You will never acquire enough armies to defeat me. _Never_."

On the floor, Crowley managed to find his voice through the searing pain coursing through him. "Then why not do it already!" Blood splattered across the floor as he spoke. "Why toy with me?"

Baal sighed. "Perhaps I am curious to see what you might try. Perhaps I need the distraction. Or perhaps," he crouched beside Crowley's shuddering form and bent close to his ear. "Perhaps I just enjoy seeing you suffer."

He tightened his fist once more, tripling the pain tearing at Crowley's insides. Crowley surrendered to the howl of anguish he'd been keeping in. He felt his very essence beginning to churn as red smoke leaked out his mouth. He couldn't even muster the willpower to summon his own followers, still waiting for their master's word in the forest. Once again, he felt cornered and alone. Fear gripped him; he could die here. Baal could easily end him forever. Crowley coughed up more blood, now forming a pool beneath his face, staining his skin and wetting his hair to his forehead. In that moment of weakness, he reached out to the only source left to him:

_Murron...!_

Crowley felt his awareness slipping away, Baal's face blurring before him. As his eyes fell closed, the pain ceased and he felt the world around him shift.

When he came to, he was lying on something soft and warm. The scent of roses prompted him into further wakefulness and he opened his eyes. He was in Murron's bedroom. She was nowhere to be found and the room itself was dark. Crowley sat up gingerly, wincing at the lingering pain still rolling in his gut. Bending over the side of the bed, he spit into the wastebasket there, grimacing to see it tinged with his blood still.

He'd opened up a can of worms by challenging Baal. His meager army of supporters would have a hard time taking down all of Baal's. There were still many in Hell who followed the old ways and as Baal was the general of all of Hell's legions, many would fall behind him. If he was going to do this, he needed help.

Crowley inched carefully off the bed and limped to the door. He heard Murron moving about downstairs; summoning up what was left of his strength, he transported himself to her.

Murron spun around when she heard Crowley fall to the floor behind her. "Jesus!" she exclaimed, pressing a hand to her chest in surprise. "Crowley! Are you all right?" She knelt beside him and lifted him up by the shoulders. "You couldn't have just, I don't know, pounded on the floor or used the stairs?"

"And ruin such an impressive entrance? Perish the thought," Crowley replied between hoarse coughs. Blood peppered the front of Murron's dress and she pulled back in horrified concern.

"You are definitely not ready to get out of bed; you've taken a serious hit!" She struggled to get him to his feet, stumbling when his weight fell against her suddenly. "What the hell happened to you? Did a convoy of Mack trucks mistake you for a speed bump or something?"

"Or something," Crowley echoed weakly, allowing Murron to assist him back up the stairs. It grated on him to be so dependent, but in this case, he knew he had no other choice. Just a shame he couldn't use Murron in the fight ahead. Witches were strong, but an angel would take them out faster than a demon. Better to leave her out of it and handle it himself.

He let Murron put him back in her bed and make much of ensuring his comfort, fluttering about him like a mother hen with one chick. He would use this time to formulate a new plan. There had to be others out there who'd opposed Lucifer. What he needed now was an army and not just of demons. No, there were other things that went bump in the night that he could employ. It was just a matter of seeking them out and convincing them his cause was worth it.

Murron left him quite tucked in, insisting that if he needed anything he should tell her and she'd get it, whatever it was. He gave her false assurance just so she'd stop fussing over him and go. He knew she had her own problems and though he was grateful for her help - for she had summoned him away from Baal, effectively saving his life again - he needed this time to be alone with his thoughts. This was just the tip of the iceberg in a sea of them. He had a long fight ahead of him and would need every ounce of wit and strength he could muster.


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Murron mulled over the crisp vellum pages, turning them slowly as she absorbed the elegant script explaining how to handle white witches. Crowley had been gone for a good while, giving her time to formulate her own plan of attack. Confident in his abilities to care for himself, she'd delved headlong into the various spells and talismans that would aid her in securing her own preservation. Many of them were relatively simple; some, less so. She focused more on the latter, believing the more complicated the spell, the more effective it would be.

She'd just dipped the quill into the inkpot when a chill ran through her. She paused, the pen's nib hovering just above the container. She dropped the quill as the icy feeling tore through her again, followed by Crowley's voice:

_Murron...!_

Immediately, Murron abandoned the lecturn and hurriedly gathered the supplies necessary for a demon summoning. She threw the herbs and roots into the ceremonial bowl fiercely, then took up the steel athame from the altar. She sliced into her palm hastily, cutting deeper than necessary, and squeezed her fist above the bowl, allowing the crimson to coat the crushed herbs within. Still bleeding profusely from her wound, she lit an entire book of matches and dropped it into the bowl. As smoke plumed up, she turned anxious eyes to the center of the cellar.

Crowley's body appeared a split-second later. He was curled on his side, head tucked against his chest in a fetal position. Murron gaped in horror at him briefly, then hastened to his side. She lifted his head, eyes searching his face for signs of life. His own eyes were glazed over and his lips were bloody. His hair was damp with more blood, splattering the expanse of his forehead in red. With great difficulty, Crowley met Murron's terrified gaze. A shaky, uncertain smile curled his stained lips as he murmured her name gratefully. Murron made to respond when his head dropped again; he was unconscious.

It took her a few moments, but Murron managed to get Crowley to his feet and began dragging him towards the stairs, all the while wishing she could disappear and reappear at will.

Crowley remained unconscious long after Murron had put him in her bed. She took this time to inspect his body for any wounds. Whatever had attacked him had done so magically. She couldn't find a source for all of the blood apart from his mouth. She parted his lips and peered inside his mouth, checking for wounds there. His throat was red and raw; as she'd suspected, the blood had come from internal damage. He'd coughed up this blood. The front of his black shirt was soaking in it.

Mutely asking for his forgiveness, Murron stripped him of the ruined suit jacket, tie, and dress shirt and put them aside. Peering down at him, half-naked on her bed, it struck her how vulnerable he looked. She knew the demon inside the meat-suit was stronger than his physical form suggested, but there was something about him now that made her fear for him. Gingerly, Murron stroked his face with both hands, fighting the lump in her throat at the thought of his being killed. It was so silly! She mentally chastised herself for being so paranoid and forced herself to her feet to fetch something to clean him up with.

With great tenderness, Murron washed the blood from Crowley's face and hair, then down his chest. Then she fetched another of his shirts from the closet and carefully dressed him in it. As she worked the shiny black buttons through their holes, her fingers remarkably steady, she thought about asking him what had happened. He'd probably never tell her; hell, he'd probably never own up to being beaten at all. If he was lucky, this rest would put everything to rights and he'd be well in the morning. However, something told Murron it would take him a bit longer to recover from this one. Whatever had attacked him had done so with the intention of killing him. She didn't want to think about what could've happened had she not heard his call.

The fact he'd done it at all surprised her. She knew he'd managed to convince a number of demons to his cause; had they not been with him? She knew she should just be grateful and honored he'd looked to her at all, but she didn't want to give herself false hope at being more important than she really was. Any danger he got himself into now would be the sort he could handle on his own. He didn't need her sigils now. No, better to just continue as she had been, pushing those foolish hopes and dreams deep into the back of her mind.

Still, she couldn't help but feel drawn to him now. It was absolutely the most inappropriate time to be thinking like this, but the temptation to kiss him tugged at her. She grunted softly to herself. If she were smart, she'd get up and let him rest. But she wasn't feeling very smart right now, not in the face of his almost dying. No, even if only for a few moments, she wanted to sit there and watch over him. To indulge that tiny part of her she'd always denied. Would it really hurt things?

Murron looked down at Crowley's sleeping face, taking in the curve of his lips and the way his eyelashes rested against his cheeks. She watched as his chest rose and fell with each breath, feeling the heat rush to her cheeks when he swallowed in his sleep. She marveled at her own self-control; having him before her all the time had been a great trial. Every day she'd wanted to be close to him, to tell him how she felt, to really take advantage of the deal she'd made. But she never did. Why she'd always held back was a mystery even to her. Perhaps she didn't want to think of it as being 'only part of the deal'. Just good business. No, what she wanted was impossible and somehow it was better to deny herself everything than believe it was all on the surface. How he treated her, how he teased her. Everytime he'd put his hands on her, she could recall it as perfectly as if he'd just done it. Sometimes she went to bed with the memory of his kiss on her lips. Or the way his skin felt on hers, how electric it was everytime they touched.

Emotions welled in Murron's chest. She pressed her hand to her lips, smothering the sob that escaped her. She'd been comfortable with the thought of dying within the year, never moreso now that she knew she'd be spending it with Crowley. But at the end of that year? Could she truly go to Hell, could she let her soul be torn from her, without ever once having told him how she felt? He could have died on this last excursion and she never would have had the opportunity. She couldn't help him in his quest to control Hell, but she could try to keep him safe.

Murron returned to the bedroom an hour later, her arms loaded down with the necessary materials to create a universal protection sigil. She knelt beside the bed, placed the objects down on the floor, then reached out and unbuttoned Crowley's shirt, exposing the full length of his torso. She smoothed the halves of the shirt down at his sides, tucking them carefully beneath him so as not to be hindered by them. He remained blessedly unaware of her ministrations as she pulled out the leaf of ancient parchment from her materials pile, along with a quill, and put these on the bed. As she prepared the salt water mixture that would be required to make the sigil, she whispered an apology to him. This would hurt him, but the pain would heal and the sigil would be sealed.

She wasn't sure if the universe or the gods that governed it even wanted demons to exist. Invisible sigils were designed to act as messages, requests that whatever the sigil represented would be granted. In Murron's case, she was aiming to protect Crowley from anything that would be thrown at him. She would die with pride so long as he survived. She kept this in the back of her mind as she took up the quill and began writing her intention on the parchment.

After some tweaking, Murron completed the condensed request into its sigil form. She placed the parchment with the completed sigil on Crowley's legs so that she could follow it and picked up the bowl of salt water from the floor. She whispered the apology again, offered a hasty, foolish kiss to the skin she was about to damage, then quickly outlined the sigil onto his chest.

Steam hissed from Crowley's body where the salt water touched him. He arched up off in the bed in his sleep, eyes squeezing shut from the pain. Murron forced her hand to remain still as she muttered incantations to the universe, pleading with them to keep him safe despite what he was or what he'd done, as tears dripped from her eyes.

"I can't protect you out there, but I can do this. I can do this," she whispered as she closed the seal's final whorl with a flourish. Crowley began to relax as the seal burned itself into his skin, then faded out completely. Murron exhaled shakily. "I'm not letting you die, Crowley. I'm just not."

She sat in silence beside him for awhile, then closed his shirt again and drew a blanket over him. She gathered her things, cast another look down at his face, and left the bedroom on trembling legs.

Crowley's failed attempt at getting out of bed too soon left Murron wondering if she should just magically knock him out. As she'd suspected, he'd overestimated himself and was now back in bed, undoubtedly sullen as anything because of it. She was presently in the kitchen piecing together various things that might tempt him. She did these things mechnically, not once asking herself if demons even needed food to heal like humans did. She knew he'd probably just take the Craig and ignore the rest, but she had to make the effort. If nothing else, it calmed her mind. Ever since he'd woken up, she'd looked at him anxiously, wondering all the while if he knew what she'd done. He seemed too preoccupied with his own issues to notice, thankfully.

Crowley was absently scratching at his middle when Murron appeared in the doorway bearing a tray. Catching sight of this gesture, she froze briefly. Her legs found the strength to move when he cast a moody look her way; perhaps he'd just had an itch, she thought as she crossed the room and placed the tray on the end of the bed. He scowled down at it.

"You can't be serious?"

"Patronise me, then," Murron replied with a tired sigh. "I don't know what to do with a wounded demon."

"Give us the Craig and go find something more productive to do. I'll be fine," Crowley made a grabbing motion towards the glass. She handed it to him, balking when he snatched it from her grip.

"Gratitude is so not your strong suit, Crowley," she remarked dryly and turned to leave. Crowley made a noise and she looked over her shoulder. He was pointing at the tray at his feet, brows lifted in an exaggerated shrug. Murron smirked, marched back to the bed, and snatched the tray from the blanket. She muttered something else about ingratitude, ignoring the smug little chuckle from the demon on the bed. She pulled the door shut behind her firmly, suddenly feeling very stupid for even trying.

Later that evening, Murron sat at the lecturn again, head bent over the grimoire and a quill in her hand. On a separate piece of paper, she scribbled down the incantations and materials list for dealing with good witches. She'd yet to really make any plans as to how to deal with the four currently looking for her; Crowley's predictament had successfully derailed her studies, once again forcing her to focus solely on him and his well-being.

A sudden crash from in front of the altar drew her attention from the grimoire. She looked up, at first startled, then sighed heavily to see Crowley pulling himself to his feet. "There's really nothing wrong with taking it easy once in a while, Crowley," Murron remarked blandly, turning back to the pages.

"No, but I can't really afford to lay about like before, love," Crowley replied, dusting himself off and coming to stand beside her. "I know you're busy here and all, but I could use a little assistance, if you don't mind."

Murron laid the quill down on the paper and twisted on the stool to look up at him. "Anything you need,if I can do it, I will."

"Perfect, darling, knew I could count on you," he purred with a smile. "I can't be bothered to do it myself, but think you could do a little of that charming dowsing for me?"

"For what?"

"Rugarus."

"Come again?"

"Oh, at least five times a session, love."

"Crowley..."

"Fine, fine." The demon composed himself. "Roo-ga-roos. They're monsters, rather nasty ones at that."

"What do you need those for?"

Crowley clicked his tongue with feigned remorse. "Can't tell you that, love. Sorry."

"I should be used to that," Murron replied, absently rubbing the back of her neck. "Okay, I'll see what I can find. How common are these things?"

"Hopefully common enough for what I have in mind," Crowley said, his gaze wandering away from hers pensively. Murron regarded him, her eyes narrowed curiously. When he looked back at her, the thoughful expression had left him and he smiled. "Have you been able to find anything interesting in there yet? For your Glindas?"

"Yes, but doing this for you will delay me a bit," Murron admitted reluctantly. "Unless they want to kill these...monster kangaroos you want."

"Cute. And they might, actually. Hadn't thought about that. Maybe you could get two birds with one stone, that sorta thing?"

"I wouldn't _mind_ if I could."

"Fantastic! I'll leave you to it, then." Crowley winked and disappeared. Overhead, Murron heard another crash, a terse 'Bollocks', then silence.

"Guess he hasn't perfected his landing quite yet," she murmured to herself, amused. Despite the outward humor of the situation, she knew that if he was asking her for help that he might be in over his head. Whatever he was planning, whoever he was planning it against, was dangerous enough for him to seek outside assistance. It certainly had been tough enough to knock him on his ass so hard he could barely teleport between rooms.

Putting her faith in the sigil she'd marked him with, Murron rose from the grimoire's stand and moved to another table across the way. A world map decorated the entirety of its surface; in the middle was a tripod structure with a quartz crystal suspected from its center on a fine gold chain. She positioned the dowsing crystal over North America, then set it swinging. She did this multiple times over various spots on the map, marking down every spot it stopped over. In the end, she compiled an impressive list of all the known living rugarus in the world. She stared down at it, biting her lip. She wanted desperately to know what Crowley was planning, especially what he was hoping to do with these creatures, but she held back, as she'd always done.

She pushed these nagging thoughts aside, folded the list and put it in her skirt pocket. Her eyes lifted to the ceiling, blindly searching the house for wherever Crowley was. The list felt strangely heavy at her hip, as though it foreshadowed another instance where she'd have to pull Crowley out of the fire, possibly in worse condition than now.

Murron pressed templed hands to her lips and closed her eyes tightly. Mutely, she prayed to the universe to keep him safe, to allow the sigil to do its job. "Just let him come back to me, that's all I ask," she whispered into her fingers. "That's all I ask."

Her heart beating hard, Murron lowered her hands and went upstairs to give Crowley the list.


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Crowley dispensed his demon henchmen to the far corners of the world to search for the rugaru Murron's scrying had produced. As he waited, he sought amusement in observing Murron practicing her new skills.

He found her in the backyard near the wood pile, the grimoire balanced on one arm, which she consulted from time to time. He watched her for a moment from the back porch to determine what she'd been doing, chuckling when she flailed a few times towards the pile. "Trying telekinesis, then?" he called out. Murron turned, a look of tired exasperation on her face.

"Trying and failing miserably, yes," she replied with a sigh. "I can't seem to focus. It's pathetic."

Crowley laughed quietly to himself again as he approached her. "You have a proclivity towards fire spells, but your psychic awareness leaves much to be desired."

"Thanks," Murron said dryly, turning back to the pile and trying again. When nothing happened again, she growled in frustration and angrily set the pile on fire. She scowled as it blazed up, casting thick black smoke into the air, arms crossed over her chest in defiance. Crowley watched the smoke blow and billow about, put the pile out with a thought, then glanced over at Murron.

"Would you like some help?"

"You're offering?" Murron was dubious as she turned to him. He levelled her with a patronising stare. She shrugged helplessly. "Okay, if you think you can..."

"You're not hopeless, just artless, darling," Crowley drawled, moving to stand behind her. Murron started a bit to have him so close, tensing when he took up her wrists in his hands and gave her arms a gentle shake. "Just relax. Move with me. Now." He balanced her arms over his own, encouraging her to bend when he did, to lift her hands with his. Like a golf instructor training a new player, they moved together, Murron's arms arcing out gracefully atop Crowley's. He murmured words of encouragement in her ear. Soon she began to get the hang of it, allowing Crowley to step away from her. He gave her a reassuring nod when she looked back at him, then performed the same gesture towards the wood pile.

A log flew from the stack, hurling itself off into the distance. Murron gave a yelp of surprise and laughed. "That's fun!"

"It can be," Crowley agreed. "Even moreso when it's your enemy you're tossing about."

"Which is precisely what I need it for. I know I'm very behind skillwise compared to other witches, especially white ones, so I wanted to make sure I wasn't going in completely defenseless." Murron threw a few more logs from the pile, each time growing stronger and casting them further away. "I don't know what to expect when I face them. It's a little unnerving, going in alone. What if I run into all of them at once? I can't disappear like you can."

"There's always a way out," Crowley reminded her. Murron eyed him curiously. "Trust me."

"Haven't stopped yet," Murron replied quietly, turning her attention back to the pile. "Have you heard anything back from your people yet? About the kangaroos?"

"Rugarus and no, not yet. I suspect they won't have anything until the evening."

"What're you planning doing with them? More importantly, where do you plan on keeping them?"

"I have places for them," Crowley said, choosing to ignore her first question. Apparently used to that, Murron didn't press and resumed decimating the black ruin of the log pile bit by bit. Crowley watched for a brief moment, then vanished, reappearing in the basement cellar.

He snapped his fingers briskly. Immediately, one of his demon lackeys appeared beside him. "Report."

"We have most of them. Some are being difficult," the demon answered. "They don't seem keen on helping demons."

"Kill the ones that fight. Or better yet, give them to the ones that aren't. It'll tempt their appetites further."

"Yes, sir." The demon bowed, then blinked from sight. Crowley started to turn away when he sensed another presence enter the basement. He angled his head towards it, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"What do you want?" he demanded.

"It's not what I want, demon, but what my petitioner wants," replied a smooth feminine voice. Crowley turned completely, smiling sardonically at the goddess standing behind him.

"Kali. Here I thought you'd disappeared from this plane ever since your feathered boyfriend got shanked by his brother. What brings you here, sweetheart?"

"As I said, my petitioner," Kali replied, ignoring his jab. Crowley stared at her, chin lifting slightly. "I had hoped to find her alone. However," the goddess added, giving him a cursory glance, "I suppose you'd be the one to speak to."

"Normally I love this kind of thing, but I haven't all the time in the world to play word games with a defunct deity. Out with it," Crowley said abruptly.

"It is my understanding you're looking to take over Hell, but someone greater than you stands in your way," Kali explained after an annoying moment of silence. Crowley waited, his wariness rising. "Baal, Crowley? Really? You wish to take out the most powerful of the fallen next to Lucifer himself? Even I could not scratch the Morningstar and you seek to eliminate his second-in-command. Have you taken leave of your senses?"

"Merely reclaimed them," Crowley amended with a snake smile. "Baal is strong, yes, which is why I have my men out there building an army."

"You mean an army of fodder," Kali pressed. Crowley shrugged casually. "Your quest is a foolish one. You will die if you continue."

"That's your opinion."

"And it is an accurate one," Kali took a step towards him. "And if you die, then my petitioner's wish goes unfulfilled. I don't make it a habit of letting my own down."

"If you're referring to Murron, she's none of yours," Crowley informed her calmly. "She swears no fealty to any god."

"No, she is not one of my followers, this is true. However, she did send out a universal request. I just happened to be the first to hear it and take an interest."

"And what did she ask for that caught your attention?"

"That is between us. All you need to know is this: I will help you defeat Baal and claim Hell for yourself."

Crowley hated to admit that surprised him. He regarded the goddess carefully. "Why?" he asked finally.

"I have my reasons. Do you accept or no?" Kali's tone was final. She wasn't going to offer anything to him, now or if ever. Crowley shrugged again, accepting this, and nodded. "Good. Continue gathering your army of monsters. Together, you and I will storm Baal's fortress and take him out. I will be in touch."

Crowley was alone. Kali had vanished, leaving the exotic scent of incense behind her. The demon king contemplated the goddess's offer of help, his eyes straying up towards where Murron stood in the backyard. So, she'd been praying for him. He wasn't sure what to think about that. A small part of him wondered at the impossible, while a larger part was thankful for the continued support of his preservation. He smiled faintly, gaze lowering to stare absently at the floor. He would return the favor in equal measure.

Snapping his fingers again, another of his demons materialized at his side. Crowley spoke without turning to him. "You will watch over Murron Guthrie. Consider yourself exempt from the war; your only mission is to ensure her safety. Do you understand?"

"Of course, Mr. Crowley. But, if I might ask -"

"You may not," Crowley interrupted briskly. "Just do as I say and I won't kill you."

"Sir." The demon vanished.

Satisfied, Crowley transported himself back outside just as Murron finished putting the logs back into the stack. She turned to him with a pleased smile, the fading sun catching the red in her hair. She shielded her eyes with a hand. "Where've you been?" she asked conversationally. "Didn't even notice you'd left until I realized I'd been talking to myself."

"Just checking on my own progress, darling, nothing to worry about," Crowley replied just as lightly, keen on keeping her in the dark about both Kali's visit and the instructions he'd given his man. "Have you satisfied yourself, then?"

"I think so. I might even be ready to take at least one of them on tomorrow," Murron replied, starting for the back porch. Crowley allowed her to pass him, then followed after. They passed through the kitchen into the living room and sat down on the comfy green sofa together. Murron stretched her legs luxuriously, lifting her arms over her head as she did so. Crowley swept his gaze over the white of her long neck to the freckled skin peeking out from the collar of her blouse. The smile that curled his lips was done almost subconsciously.

Murron, feeling his eyes on her, met his gaze brightly. "What is it?" she asked.

"Just admiring the view," Crowley replied. Murron laughed and gave him a small push.

"I don't think you can go a day without teasing me," she remarked with another little amused chuckle. "Starting to think you have a quota or something."

Crowley didn't respond, merely smiled and shrugged his brows. They sat in silence for awhile, Murron curled up with her knees against the back of the couch, he with his hands folded and resting in his lap. It felt, and sort of was, like the eve before a great battle. Their silence was no less comfortable than it had always been, but a heaviness hung in the air all the same. Crowley could only guess what weighed on Murron's mind. He wanted to broach the subject about her prayer to the universe and who'd answered it, if only to satisfy his own curiousity. His hand strayed to his chest where that strange persistant itch continued to plague him. It had begun shortly after he'd woken up the first night after tangling with Baal. It almost felt like a healing wound, yet he couldn't recall being injured there.

Something else had been off since that night as well. He'd sensed strong magic at work, an aura that seemed to follow him around. He couldn't really see it, only sense it, a protective field - if he had to guess, anyway - that created a barrier between him and the rest of the world's influences. It was very strange. He didn't find it unpleasant, however. Alien, sure, but not unpleasant.

Crowley looked up when he felt Murron staring at him anxiously. His hand stilled on his chest. "Something the matter?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing. You've been scratching at yourself for a few days now; are you all right?" Murron asked, shifting a bit closer to him. Her knee touched his upper arm as she leaned in and peered at his chest. Crowley smirked a bit, shaking his head.

"It's nothing. Nothing's ever wrong with me, darling, you know that."

"None that you'd actually tell me, no," Murron conceded, disappointment in her voice. "I swear, you have to come home beaten up for me to know if anything's wrong."

"I'm the picture of forthrightness," Crowley quipped, looking to lighten the mood and possibly divert her attention. Murron furrowed her brow, dubious, but didn't press further. "Do you know who you'll be going after first?" he asked after another moment's silence. Murron, successfully distracted, nodded.

"There have been reports of more mysterious deaths in the area," she began, leaning in again. "They show signs of torture if you can believe it."

"Torture? Really? And you think it's your Glindas?"

"The torture methods used haven't been seen since the Spanish Inquisition," Murron replied meaningfully. Crowley's brows lifted. "I know! It struck me as odd, too, when I first heard about it. Like, why would witches be doing that? Then it occurred to me: they're probably Christian witches."

"Christian witches," Crowley echoed, clearly incredulous. "Those exist."

"There's zealots in every religion, even the ones that mix paganism and Christianity," Murron pointed out. "And another thing was mentioned that I didn't quite get."

"Which was?"

"Some of the victims had no eyes. Like they'd been burned clean out of their heads. Do you know what that could mean?"

Crowley blew out a slow breath. "Sounds like angels. When they smite something, they tend to fry the eyes out of their victims. These witches must have been hunting demons." This last bit bothered him intensely, as they could have easily been among his own followers. He didn't exactly have a lot of them to lose. It was just as well Kali had offered her assistance; anymore deaths like this and he'd be out of an army!

"Do you think they have an angel with them?" Murron asked, drawing Crowley from his thoughts. He shrugged. "'Cause if they do, I might be in over my head!"

"Well, you don't know that yet," he assured her. "If they're Christian witches like you say, they could easily have - for lack of a better term - holy powers. They may not have an angel with them, but could have been granted holy powers by them. It's not unheard of demons doing this, so why not angels?"

"You mean like how you allowed me to see Growley before my time?"

"Yes, something like that."

"That doesn't really help my anxiety much," Murron said with a grimace. Crowley reached over and gave her hand a small pat.

"You'll be fine. You've already taken out demons; witches should be a walk in the park."

"I can only hope you're right," she sighed, resting her head against the couch cushions. "I don't foresee much sleep tonight. I think I'm too wound up to really relax enough to sleep."

"I can think of a few things we could do to wear you out," Crowley grinned, unable to resist. He playfully poked at her nose with a fingertip. Murron giggled and bat his hand away.

"Is that all you think about?" she asked, smiling up at him warmly.

"Could be," Crowley replied evasively. "It's certainly been long enough, hasn't it?"

"In what regard?"

"Time. I've been with you for, what, six months and you've only creeped on me in my sleep once. I think you're slipping, love."

"Shut up, don't make me remember that,' Murron whacked his shoulder. "I felt so stupid!"

"Would it help if I said I'd let you do it again, but for longer?" Crowley bent closer till their foreheads just touched, his grin turning suggestive. "I'd even stay still for something below the belt!"

Murron blushed crimson, made a kind of squeaking noise, and fell back onto the sofa. Crowley laughed, enjoying her flustered expression and flailing hands. She struggled back up, hair a mess and face redder than before. "You are an absolute terror!" she exclaimed between gasping laughs. "You're never going to give up, are you? How do I know you're even being serious?"

"You don't, but that's part of the fun, isn't it? You can't tell me you don't enjoy these moments," Crowley insisted, propping his cheek on his fist and beaming at her. "It'd be so dull otherwise."

"Maybe a little dull is what we need now," Murron said, flipping her touseled curls out of her face. "I don't know what you're doing, but I'm preparing to go against a whole coven of really crazy and powerful witches. I'd like a little humdrum if I can get it!"

"My life is never dull and I don't intend to start here," Crowley said loftily. Murron shook her head. "How about this, then."

"I'm going to regret this, but how about what?"

Crowley's expression shifted, softening from the teasing to something a bit more kind. Murron noted the change and sobered as well, the crease above her eyes the only indication of her apprehension. "You made a deal with me for me, for a year, yet I feel as though you haven't taken as full advantage of it as you could. Perhaps you're too polite, I haven't really given it much thought, to be honest. Whatever it is, I'm telling you it's all right to want those things. Don't look at me like that. If you didn't want it, you wouldn't have fawned over me that morning. Why do you deny yourself? It doesn't make any sense."

Murron averted her eyes, the crease between her brows deepening. She fidgeted with the coin at her throat as if to collect her thoughts. "I suppose..." she began slowly, then swallowed thickly. "I suppose I'm...well. I guess I'm afraid."

"Of what?"

"Regretting it. Oh, I don't think I'd regret sleeping with you, but I'd definitely regret having to die at the end of the year," she finished this softly, her head lowering to her chest as if ashamed. "You saw how hard it was for me to refuse your amendment to our deal. I'd be too tempted to take you up on it if we..." Her words fell away as emotions closed off her throat. She pressed her fingers to it, swallowing hard again. "It's stupid, I know, but it's how I feel."

Crowley wasn't sure what to make of this confession. He disliked emotional scenes like this as a rule; they'd always left him disarmed. Yet he'd been aware of her attraction to him almost from the get-go and as a being that went after whatever he fancied, this self-denial of hers confused him greatly. If he hadn't made a deal with her or had witnessed her killing demons, he would have seen her as almost too puritanical for black magic. Her disposition was not that of the usual black magic user; she'd sought a demon deal for a wholly different reason than most. It had come off as self-serving initially, but now? Now she barely seemed to want to take advantage. She'd referred to the ten year amendment as a term of imprisonment for him. The witch who'd made the incredibly selfish deal for him had also made the selfless sacrifice of not holding him longer than she needed to.

This irritated him.

"It is stupid," he said finally, his voice slightly colored by his irritation. Murron looked up sharply at the change in his tone. "Demon deals are designed to be used selfishly, not selflessly. If you want me, then you can have me. But you deny yourself. It's annoying."

Murron stared at him, quite at a loss. "You think I just want an easy fuck, is that it?"

"Don't you?"

Murron's cheeks flared. "No, as a matter of fact, I don't!" she snapped. "And if that's what you're looking for, well, you can just go ahead and give me my soul back!"

"Murron, don't be ridiculous," Crowley sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. How he hated emotional outbursts! "I'm simply trying to understand your intentions here. Is that so difficult to understand?"

At that, she seemed to calm somewhat, her shoulders dropping from their raised stance. "No, I suppose it isn't," she allowed, her voice low. "To be fair, I don't even understand them myself. I wasn't exactly looking at the big picture when I made the deal."

"No one really does," Crowley remarked tiredly. "They're all so surprised when their time is up, even though we were always very clear about the terms. People hear ten years and think ten decades. Morons." He sighed again, this time with less irritation. "I'm going to be honest here, which I am not often fond of being as it leaves me open to attack, but I think you've more than earned it." He paused, absently gliding one finger between his nose and upper lip. Murron waited. Kali's words echoed in Crowley's mind, how they'd suggested something more than simple protection. Why did humans protect things? That was obvious: because they wanted those things to be safe. Why did they want it to be safe? Because they -

He sighed again, covering his face in both hands. "Stupid, stupid girl," he muttered as realisation dawned. "You're denying yourself because you..."

"Yes," Murron replied in a small voice, ducking her head to her chest again. "That's why I said it's stupid."

Crowley didn't know what to say. It was a confession and yet it wasn't. He knew he couldn't reciprocate, not the way she would have wanted. What had been a comfortable situation was now suddenly very complicated. Whenever emotions came into it, it always got complicated. And he wasn't overly fond of difficult situations.

The itch returned and he scratched idly at it, his thoughts still a jumble. Then, another epiphany came to him, and he looked up at Murron with wide eyes. "What did you do?" he breathed. Murron met his gaze uncertainly. He spread his fingers against his chest and asked again, this time very slowly, "What did you do."

She had the look of a child about to be scolded and sent to her room as she meekly replied, "I inscribed an invisible sigil onto your skin."

"Why? What does it do?"

Murron glanced down. "It's a very strong protection spell. You're probably itching because I had to use salt water." She said this last bit very quickly, wincing. "I'm so sorry, Crowley, but when you came home like that, I got so scared. I can't help you fight, if that's what you're doing, but I couldn't just sit by and watch you get killed. I had to do something. I just -" she paused as a sob caught in her throat. "I just can't let you die. How could I finish out my final year, knowing you died and I could've done something? How could I let that happen? I couldn't and I wouldn't, so I created that sigil and put it on you while you were still unconscious. It was wrong and I should have asked for your permission first, but I couldn't help myself. I can't let you die." She gave into the sobs that shook her shoulders and bowed her face into her hands. "I can't!" she repeated, her voice muffled.

Crowley could only stare at her, a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. Part of him wanted to rail at her for taking advantage of a weak moment. To rob her of one of the gifts he'd granted her. But the other part was oddly affected. It had been her sigil that had called out to Kali, who had come to him and offered her powers to his cause despite the obvious distaste she had for him. Murron's sigil, her stupid act of selfless _love_ for him, had given him the means to defeat Baal and take Hell.

It was that part of him that made him take her hands in his and pull them gently from her face. Murron lifted her face to him, cheeks stained with her tears and red from the emotional exertion. She gazed at him through those distraught brown eyes, mutely pleading for his forgiveness for her folly. She mouthed her apology again as Crowley drew nearer, one hand leaving her shaking ones to take her by the chin. With great care, Crowley pressed his lips to hers. She started at first, fumbling at the hand that still held hers. Then, slowly, she returned the kiss, her tears mingling between them.

It was a very different kiss from the ones they'd shared before. On his end was the gratitude he hated himself for feeling towards her wish for his preservation; on Murron's, the sorrow for having decieved him and the need for forgiveness. This sorrow melted away, replaced by what Crowley could only assume was her feelings for him. Her hands left his and gingerly went to his shoulders. She shifted closer towards him, coiling her arms around his neck and breathing deeply into the kiss. He obliged her by holding her to him, their joined lips shifting as they settled back against the sofa.

When the kiss ended, Murron bowed her head against Crowley's chest. She smoothed her palm above the invisible sigil, smiling when Crowley laid his hand over hers. He rested his forehead on top of her head and sighed slowly. "Thank you," he murmured softly. She tightened her grip on him, shoulders quaking as another silent sob moved through her. "I can't tell you what you've done, but thank you. Stupid girl." He said this last with some fondness, smiling when he felt her laugh quietly against him.

It was very strange, sitting there, holding her and not feeling repulsed by the obvious emotional display. Dim memories of another time drifted into his mind, causing his brow to furrow. He'd lived entirely too long if such a feeling was so old it barely registered. Mentally, he shrugged. This was potentially the night before a very trying time for her; the least he could do was cater to those foolish emotions she held for him.

After awhile, he became conscious of the fact she'd grown somewhat heavy. He peered into her face. Her eyes were closed, her face relaxed. She'd fallen asleep, he realized with a smile. Let her sleep. He shifted his head into a more comfortable position atop hers, her hair tickling his jaw. He remained that way with her sleeping form beside him, as the clock on the mantle steadily ticked away the night hours.


	16. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Murron woke the following morning in her bed. She blinked, confused for a moment, then the memory of the night before made her inhale sharply. She touched her lips lightly, the kiss still burning there. Then, as if not wanting to believe it possible, she slowly turned her head towards the opposite side of the bed.

It was empty.

Her heart dropped in her chest, sadness overtaking her. Guess his consideration ended at dawn. There was really no time to focus on that, she reminded herself, and got out of bed. She dressed hastily, choosing a skirt that allowed for freedom of movement, and a blouse that didn't have the usual swishy sleeves. The last thing she wanted was to give those witches something to grab onto. As an afterthought, she bound up her hair as well, securing it firmly in a bun. A pair of comfortable shoes with straps completed her 'warrior' garb. Satisfied with her first bit of preparation, Murron trotted down the stairs to the kitchen. She needed a good cup of strong Scottish tea to harden her nerves. She abandoned the thought of breakfast, feeling it would only bog her down should she need to run. A quick cup and a slice of toast made up her pre-war feast and soon she was marching into the cellar to gather her arsenal to her.

There was no metal in existance that could magically harm a white witch, but that didn't stop Murron from shoving the steel athame into her pack. Stab anything and it was bound to bleed. To that, she added a pouch of magic dust that burned the skin of anything in came into contact with, a vial of fluid that mimicked the effects of sulfuric acid, and a small roll of parchment with a spell written in blood that would activate when burned. She knew she was being awfully redundant with her fondness for fire-based spells and objects. She just didn't see the point in fixing what wasn't broken, as it had been fire that had gotten her out of demonic scrapes before. And nothing that breathed enjoyed being set ablaze.

Exhaling deeply, Murron took a moment to center herself. She would have liked Crowley there with her, if only to offer up a goodbye - she did her best not to preface that with 'last' - but she knew he had his own matters to attend to. She'd already burdened him with the truth of her love; no sense putting salt in the wound. He'd taken it better than expected, that she had to admit. The kiss had been a pleasant surprise, one that she was sure to carry with her into battle. She allowed it to strengthen her, to boost her confidence. She'd managed to move the seemingly immovable. That alone was enough to go the rest of her days on.

Murron flexed her powers, feeling the fire building up inside her, the heat spilling off her skin. The air shimmered in hazy waves, the roar of flames echoed in her ears. This was the fire Crowley had given her. She would use it to every possible end. The weight of murdering someone no longer fell on her shoulders. This was not a time for fear or morals. She'd sold her soul, invited a demon into her home, had fallen in love with him, and was now fighting for his preservation. Her drive to kill the witches was less about her own survival and all about his. They were a threat to him. And she would snuff out anything that would seek to harm him.

She was ready.

The first kiss of autumn stirred the air as Murron made her way towards the first witch's house. She'd walked the entire way, her aura crackling, no longer preoccupied with how she came off to others. No longer concerned with stealth or deception. No, if she was going to do this, she was going in with both barrels blazing.

The witch lived a few miles outside of town on a large acre of land. The house was quaint, with a kind of Colonial feel to it. Gingerbread moulding was everywhere; it was almost vulgar. The exterior was painted in a pastel shade of purple, a color that reminded Murron of Easter eggs. The clapboard shutters were pale yellow with tulips stenciled onto them. Yes, it was vulgar and tacky and nothing she wouldn't have expected from a white witch. Still, it put her off her confidence slightly as she recalled the methods these witches employed. It made the facade of the house before her all the more haunting. It hid a terrible secret; even now Murron could picture the witch's cellar covered in ancient torture devices, the witch herself the perfect clone of Carol Brady, complete with the white-blonde hair and bellbottom trousers. The image was nauseating.

Murron paused at the foot of the whitewashed path leading to the front steps and looked up towards the windows. Light shone in the upstairs casements, and now and again a shadow passed in front of them. The witch was in, apparently. Good. Murron wanted to get this one over and done with and move onto the next.

She started up the walk, pausing to smirk at a whimisical sign hanging from the porch supports that read 'Patience is a Virtue' in flowery script. She cupped the edge of the sign and fire curled from her fingers to lick across the painted surface. It smoldered quietly as Murron continued towards the door. She was just lifting her hand to it when a force exploded from within the house and sent her careening back on the sidewalk.

Pain shattered her senses as she landed hard on the pavement. The wind was knocked from her in a single breath and as she lay there trying to regain some sense of awareness, a shadow passed over her.

"Well, well, well," a saccharine voice said above her. "Look what the cat dragged in! I wasn't expecting to see you for months, dear!" The shadowy figure bent closer. "How nice of you to make my job easier! That's a good dear, yes, it is."

Murron recoiled from the powdered hand that patted her cheek. She pushed herself backwards, slowly, desperate to get away from the overwhelming scent of musky powder that surrounded the witch. Her pathetic escape was stilled by another figure coming up behind her. It, too, had the strong powder smell, but also something else. Something cold. She angled her head back to squint at the other silhouette.

"This is the bad witch?" a child's voice asked.

"Yes, she's a very, very bad witch! You know what we do with bad witches, don't you, sweetheart?"

"He doesn't like her. He says she needs to be punished."

Murron felt her blood turn to ice in her veins. Instinctively, she clutched at the coin Crowley had given her, hastily muttering a plea for help. To her horror, the child bent down, pushed her hand away, and snatched the coin from her neck with a violent jerk.

"Look at this, Mommy," the child presented the coin to her mother. The elder witch took it and inspected it carefully. She shook her head slowly, clucking her tongue.

"We can't have this. No, I don't want his kind of filth in my house." She gripped the coin tightly in her palm. A brilliant flash of white light erupted from her closed fist, causing Murron to cry out in alarm. The light faded and the witch opened her palm again. Dust fell from her hand: she'd destroyed the coin. Murron was alone.

"Well, we should take her inside. If he says she needs to be punished, then that's precisely what we'll do," the older witch declared, waving a hand at Murron. Murron felt herself lifting from the sidewalk and attempted to cast a fire spell. It fizzled in her mind and her terror grew. The witch had cancelled out her powers. She was now alone and very helpless.

Fear mounted in her chest as tears burned her eyes. She thought of Crowley, wherever he was, wanting desperately to see him again. Foolishly, she looked to the sky, hoping against hope to see the swirl of crackling red smoke coming for her. But there was nothing, only a darkening autumn expanse. Even the moon seemed to mock her as she was magicked into the house, the door closing behind them.

Murron was guided into the depths of the house, her hands and feet bound tightly by ropes that had been strengthened by magic. The witch introduced herself as Patience; her daughter, the cold child that had taken the coin, was Angelica. The 'he' she'd referred to outside had yet to be revealed.

Patience led the way into the cellar, Angelica trailing after Murron's suspended body. She seemed to be in silent communication with someone, for she muttered to herself occasionally. As they reached the end of the stone steps, Patience released Murron from her hold. Murron tumbled to the hard floor, grunting in pain. Patience ignored this and moved to another section of the basement. Light followed her and soon Murron was able to get a good look about her.

Silently, she cursed her overactive imagination. The cellar had been precisely what she'd pictured, only ten times' worse in reality. A wicked-looking iron maiden stood in the corner, it's cover only partially closed to reveal the stained spikes within. A chair with a spiked seat was a few feet from it, iron wrist and ankle shackles attached to the arms and legs. A metal band was at the top of the chair, suggesting it was there to prevent the poor soul on it from moving even their heads. A thumbscrew device was suspended above both chair arms, poised and ready to be used. In another corner stood an bizarre-looking contraption: it sat on a tripod of wooden supports and was topped with an iron upside-down pyramid. Iron rings had been bolted into the wall behind it, long chains hung from them, ending in more shackles. To top everything else off, a rickety wooden rack sat in the very center of the cold cellar, its grained surface stained with blood.

They meant to break her, Murron realized. She swallowed back the tears that threatened to reveal the true measure of her terror. She wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of her pain. She simply had to figure out a way out of this so she could get back to the house and, hopefully, back to Crowley.

"He's coming, Mommy," Angelica announced suddenly, her shrill voice breaking the silence. Patience reappeared from around the corner, a pleased smile on her motherly features.

"He will be pleased with our offering!" she declared with rapturous joy, her face turning towards the heavens in praise. "It is always a good day when one of God's own comes to the Earth!"

Murron grew white. So they did have an angel helping them. She braced herself as the floor began to quake and things fell from their places on the walls. Only Patience and Angelica seemed unaffected by the sudden jostling, their faces lifted in grateful prayer.

In another second, a flash of light thundered down from the ceiling and landed with an eardrum-shattering _THOOM_ between the witch and her daughter. Only Murron screamed, her voice suffocating beneath the feverish exclamations from Patience and Angelica as the angel descended. When the light cleared, a tall man in white turned towards where Murron lay on the floor. His eyes were a piercing blue, brighter than anything she'd ever seen before, and they were indescribably cold. They bore into her as he came near, his long legs breaking the distance between them in two easy strides.

He crouched to her level, inhuman gaze forcing hers to hold his. "This is the witch helping the demon king," he said in a remarkably soft voice. "She is stained. I can smell him all over her." Disgust entered his words as his lips curled into a sneer. "She is to be cleansed." He rose to his feet and turned from Murron.

"At once, Lord Puriel, at once!" Patience trilled, coming up to grip the angel's arm. Angelica drew near the angel as well, closing her eyes in pleasure when he placed a hand atop her head. Only Murron had the sense to appear terrified.

Puriel took Patience and Angelica to him, his palms resting on their foreheads. He murmured something Murron couldn't hear. The blissed-out looks on both Patience's and Angelica's faces suggested whatever he was doing was pleasurable to them. She recalled Crowley's comment about angels granting holy power to their servants; if that's what he was doing, then she knew she was in serious trouble. In the face of holy light, all the demon fire in the world couldn't save her now. And with the coin gone, she was truly at a loss.

Suddenly, a black cloud exploded through the cellar window and surrounded Murron. She heard a strange voice in her mind, requesting her acceptance of it into her. Murron granted her permission just as she heard Puriel and Patience roar their angry surprise at being invaded by a demonic spirit. Before either could advance on her, the demon took control of Murron's body and they vanished.

The demon deposited Murron into the living room, then vacated her body swiftly. Murron lay sprawled on the floor, coughing and gasping as the cloud swirled out of the house. Moments later, a young man burst through the front door and knelt beside her. He helped her onto the sofa, then peered into her face.

"Who are you?" Murron managed through rasping coughs.

"Victor," the young man replied. "Mr. Crowley had me watch over you. I'm sorry it took me so long to get to you; the witch had wards up. I had to waste a lot of meat-suits to break it. That was an angel, wasn't it?"

"Yes, someone called Puriel," Murron nodded, her spasming chest beginning to calm down. She leaned back against the cushions, moaning in pain. "How the hell are we supposed to defeat an angel?"

"I've never seen one before, not even during the Apocalypse," Victor admitted with some awe. "Certainly, there was Lord Lucifer, but he was different from the others."

"'Lord Lucifer'?" Murron echoed, looking at the eager face beside her. "You were one of his before this?"

"Yes, and Mr. Crowley would have had me killed for it, but I proved my worth to him in another matter. I know now I was following the wrong master."

"Then you support Crowley's mission to take over Hell?"

"I do. I have every belief he'll succeed."

Murron stared at Victor for a moment, weighing her next words carefully. "Victor, do you know what he's up against?"

"How do you mean?"

"Something is blocking his progress, I can tell, but he won't say anything to me. Can you tell me?"

Victor appeared conflicted. Finally, he could only shrug helplessly. "My loyalty is to him. If he hasn't said anything to you, then neither will I. I was only told to ensure your survival in this. Nothing more."

Murron sighed. Of course he wouldn't tell her. It had been stupid to even ask. She chose to put it aside for now and focus instead on the problem at hand. "You don't know of any way of defeating an angel?"

"No, I'm sorry, I don't," Victor replied reluctantly. "Like I said, I'd never gone up against one before. I know what they can do to demons. I've seen that much."

"There has to be a way," Murron insisted, standing to pace the floor. "Everything can die, even angels, right?" She spoke more to herself than Victor, who watched her cross and recross the carpet quickly. Suddenly, she turned back to Victor, eyes narrowed in consideration. "I know you have your orders to keep an eye on me, but do you think you could ask around, see if anyone knows how to kill an angel?"

Victor pondered this, then nodded. "There are specific channels I can go through to find that out."

"Meanwhile, I'm going to stay here and brush up on my skills further. I was in way over my head today, I realize that now. And to think there's still three more out there..." She trailed off, sighed, and swept a hand over her forehead wearily. She needed a bath, a cup of tea, and a nap. She also needed to know Crowley was okay, but she didn't mention this to Victor. Some things were best kept to oneself. One thing at a time, she told herself, one thing at a time.

Looking back up at Victor, Murron offered him a tired smile. "Thank you for getting me out of there. I really had no idea what to do after they overpowered me and destroyed the coin."

"Just following my orders," Victor replied, rising and giving her a small nod. "I'll keep an eye out around the house." He blinked out without waiting for Murron to respond.

Grateful to be alone again, Murron entered the kitchen and prepared a cup. She tried not to think about Crowley, choosing instead to put faith in the sigil she'd marked him with. His gratitude last night had proven its success; whatever had happened to him while she was outside had been beneficial. She knew she'd never get the particulars out of him. It was enough to know that the sigil was working and that his safety was assured.

Teacup in hand, Murron made her way upstairs to the bathroom. As she drew a bath, she reflected on the challenges ahead. Patience had been stronger than she'd originally believed, if the blossoming bruises on her back and arms were any indication. She viewed these with a pained grimace, turning this way and that in front of the mirror to get a good look at them. They were dark and ugly, spreading across her skin like spilled ink. She reviewed a number of herbal remedies for them as she stepped into the welcoming hot water, sinking down with a pleased sigh.

She drank her tea slowly, absently staring ahead of her into the bathwater. She hoped Victor would be able to find something; her powers alone wouldn't be enough to take out an angel or his amped-up followers. She tried to recall what she might've known about Puriel, but nothing came to mind. He was almost a nonentity in her limited mental library of angelic scriptures. Perhaps the grimoire could offer further information, maybe even an Enochian binding spell? The possibility soothed her as she leaned back and closed her eyes.

One thing at a time.


	17. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

At Kali's request, she and Crowley departed for Europe to inspect Baal's fortress a second time.

The goddess spent a long time simply observing it from a nearby mountain cliff, her face expressionless. Crowley, having already scoped things out the first time, hung back and conferred with Melchiah on the collecting of the world's rugaru population.

"Too many of them were combative," Melchiah reported solemnly. "As it stands now, we only have a couple hundred willing to fight for you."

"Better than what we had when we started," Crowley remarked with feigned positivity. Melchiah was grim. "How many were there before?"

"At least five hundred."

"Bloody hell," Crowley muttered, turning away from Melchiah and looking out towards Baal's castle. Five hundred rugaru would have made storming the fortress a cakewalk. Now with only two hundred at their flank, it would be considerably more difficult. Mutely, Crowley thanked Murron again for unconsciously summoning Kali; she'd at least give them the upper hand.

"Shall we try for another race, sir?" Melchiah asked. Crowley turned back to him, a look of deep consideration on his face. "Rugaru aren't the only mindless beasts out there."

"It's possible Kali over there might be able to provide us with something," Crowley replied absently, walking over to where the goddess stood. She cast him a brief glance out of the corner of her eye, a very small grimace curling her red lips. She still loathed the idea of helping him, he realised with a smug smile. Too bad for her she had no choice: her honor bound her to the task, however repulsive. "Don't suppose you have any mindless zealots I could use?"

Kali looked down at him, sour. "You are aware is it the twenty-first century, not the second?" she asked dryly. Crowley smirked. "No, Crowley, I do not have any zealots, mindless or otherwise. I have only myself and that has been enough."

"Let's hope so," Crowley remarked, glancing back at Melchiah briefly. "Since it's all we have right now."

"Problems with your fodder?"

"Don't be cute, Kali," Crowley sneered. "It doesn't suit you."

"Sarcastic avoidance suits you, however, Crowley. To what humans would refer to as a 'T'."

"You planning on making this little flirtation more interesting or am I to go away unsatisfied?"

At that, Kali turned slowly on him. "I am not Murron. You will not address me so carelessly, demon. Your charm, if that term even applies here, has no effect on me. I am only here on her request. Once I have defeated your enemies, I will leave. This association galls me."

"Hadn't noticed," Crowley replied jauntily, quirking his brows at her suggestively before going back to Melchiah. Kali resumed her observation of the fortress, seemingly all to happy to shut the demon king out.

Crowley nodded towards Melchiah, who approached. "Fetch what we have. I want to have a look at them."

"Sir," Melchiah bowed and vanished. In another moment, he returned, accompanied by the rest of Crowley's demon army, all clasping thick chains. At the end of each chain was a snarling rugaru, many of which had completed the full transformation. Only a handful still bore some resemblance to the humans they'd once been; these seemed far more subdued. Some were even afraid, as evidenced by the cautious looks they cast about themselves.

Forcing himself to be satisfied, Crowley went back to Kali's side. "If we're going to do this, we should do it now," he informed her quietly. Kali didn't respond straightaway, closing her eyes instead. Crowley waited, his patience, already thin, wearing further. Finally, she opened them again and nodded.

"Begin your attack. I will follow after," she replied, then disappeared before Crowley could respond. Now more than a little annoyed, the demon king looked back at his meager army. So much for the goddess's help, he thought bitterly. As with most things, if he wanted something done right...

"Melchiah, take the beasts and release them at the fortress gates. Put the hungry ones in front," Crowley commanded from the cliff's edge, his voice carrying through the thicket. The thrill of bloodshed rose in him and his eyes flashed to red. It had been a long time since he'd been able to indulge in this kind of mindless slaughter. Normally he would have kept his hands pristine, but now he was fighting for something worth getting messy for. The excitement of the oncoming kill fueled his inhuman hunger and he grinned maliciously at his men.

"Let's have ourselves a war, boys."

The rugaru made short work of the demons guarding Baal's fortress gates. As Crowley and his men descended into the fray, the bridge and towers were already littered with the broken bodies of sentries and lesser demons. The rugaru snarled their rage as the first wave of Crowley's army hurried past them, but were reluctant to leave their carnage. Only Crowley himself remained somewhat behind, casting aside any who would attempt to still his assault.

Where the hell was Kali? Crowley scowled inwardly at the goddess as he snapped the neck of two guards in the inner courtyard. He was drawing close to Baal's sanctum; without Kali's assistance, Crowley would never stand another chance against the fallen angel. He paused briefly, looking about him in hopes of spying the goddess's approach. When no shadow darkened the portculis, Crowley scowled again and pivoted about to begin the final assault alone.

Then, a great roar came from the front of the castle. Crowley whipped round again, a wild grin spreading across his face to see the figure of Kali, mounted on what appeared to be a massive jackal, thunder over the stone drawbridge. Her skin was the stark blue of her pantheon's deities, hair unbound and streaming like a writing mass of black serpents behind her. Blood-red markings covered her frightening visage, her tongue snaking out every time she took down a demon with her golden trident. Most alarming of all was her arms: she'd manifested two more and in each she bore another weapon.

Kali drew her mount to a halt as she neared Crowley, leaping from the beast's back and landing at the demon's side. She towered over him now, having grown to stand at an impressive seven feet. A third eye darted about in the center of her forehead, its red gaze piercing all who looked upon it. She fixed her stare on Crowley. "I haven't much power," she boomed, her voice carrying throughout the compound. "This form will not last forever. If we strike, we strike now."

"Can the foreplay then?" Crowley quipped, unable to resist. Kali ignored the remark, readied the weapons clasped in her red palms, and started for the final door barricading their way to Baal. Crowley vanished after her, reappearing on the opposite side of the door just in time for Kali to plow through it.

At the head of the chamber, Baal stood with his back to the intruders. He'd come to the party just as well-dressed: his wings, manifested in flesh and bone, fanned out majestically, catching the air as Baal turned and greeted them with a sardonic smile. "Have you come to die, demon?"

"Not this time, sweetheart," Crowley returned, snapping his fingers. Flames erupted behind Baal, forcing the angel to bound away from the heat threatening to scorch his wings. "As you can see, I've got a date. Baal, meet Kali, Hindu goddess of destruction. I'm sure you two will have a nice chat before I smoke you into the ground."

"Your words are boastful and empty, filth," Baal sneered coldly, bending forward defensively. "If you think a weakened goddess of a long forgotten pantheon can defeat me, you have truly taken leave of any senses left to you."

"You Westerners never cease to amaze me with your arrogance," Kali thundered. "If you think my faith dead, you clearly have been locked away in this dungeon for too long."

"I may be of the fallen, whore, but I am still of the most powerful religion in the world!" Baal cried, clenching his fist in Kali's direction. "Let's see if the faith your followers have in you allow you to survive this."

"Gladly." Kali twirled her scimitar and trident, their deadly points aiming straight for the angel's heart. She stomped her red feet, summoning blue fire to join Crowley's blaze. The fire ate away at Baal's throne and dais, causing the entire room to fill with black smoke. Being creatures of the flame, neither Crowley nor Kali were affected by the suffocating clouds. Baal, on the other hand, pumped his mighty wings and took to the ceiling, blowing away all smoke in his wake.

Crowley bolted out of the way just as Baal descended sharply towards him. The angel landed forcefully, his feet forming a crater around him. Kali lashed out with her trident, catching Baal's right wing and wounding it. Baal howled in pain and flew at the goddess. She parried his strikes with her third arm, slicing down with the scimitar. Blood spilled from the angel's chest, staining his white raiment in red. As they wrestled, Crowley retreated back a few feet to cast flame spells at the angel's back. Baal's left wing took the hit, the feathers curling and burning.

"Fools!" Baal shouted, whipping the burning wing out sharply and snuffing the flames. "You cannot defeat me! I am an angel of the Heavens, a servant of Hell, and a brother to Lucifer, Lord of Flame! These pathetic attempts on my life will only cause the loss of yours!"

"Keep talking, Polly," Crowley mocked, sending up another gust of flame towards Baal. "It only makes it more interesting."

Kali, taking advantage of Baal's momentary distraction, drove the point of her blade into Baal's right leg. The angel staggered to the ground, blood gushing from the wound. She brought her trident down, pinning Baal's flailing left wing. Thus tethered, she gripped his right wing in all four of her arms and pulled. Muscle and sinew tore away from Baal's back, his intense cries of pain bloodcurdingly shrill. Kali succeeded in her gruesome task and cast the mutilated appendage aside. As Baal continued to shriek in pain and surprise, Kali seized his arms, two hands to each of his wrists. He cast a terrified look up at the goddess, his bloodied lips moving in silent pleas. These fell on deaf ears as Kali pulled outwardly at Baal's arms. She stretched him to the point of pure agony, ignoring the angel's grotesque sobbing as she severed his arms from his torso. Her mutilation complete, Kali put one foot on Baal's chest and kicked him away in disgust.

Baal's broken and severely damaged body rolled towards Crowley. Crowley dug his foot into Baal's neck, savoring the horrified look in the angel's eyes. He bent over and retrieved the scimitar from Baal's thigh. This he cradled in one hand, fingers caressing the bloodied blade obscenely. "I'm sorry, Baal, what was that you were saying? Something about this costing us our lives?" Crowley taunted loftily. The angel, delirious from the beating he'd undergone, could only work his jaw on words that refused to come. "You've been hiding here too long," Crowley continued, leaning forward. "Should've been in it with your big brother. Maybe then you would've had a chance at surviving _me._"

"Hurry, Crowley," Kali pressed. "I don't know how much longer I can hold this form."

"My apologies, love," Crowley replied graciously. He looked back at Baal. "You should've surrendered when I gave you the chance." Before Baal could react, Crowley brought the scimitar down on his neck, freeing his head from his body. The wide-eyed, gaping-mouthed head of Baal spun away like a ball on ice, coming to a stop when Kali put her foot upon it. She bent over, gripped the hair, and hoisted it into the air triumphantly.

"I appreciate the souvenir," she told Crowley, smiling for the first time since their agreement. Crowley grinned, the scimitar resting over his shoulder casually. "Our arrangement is complete, my task is fulfilled. You have proven yourself a worthy associate, Crowley. I do not say that lightly to many; you should be honored."

"Oh, I am, love, I am," Crowley assured her. "And should you ever need anything, let me know. I always return my favors."

"I will remember that. Farewell, demon." Kali shimmered out, the same trace of incense billowing behind her. Alone, Crowley permitted himself a satisfied glance about him. He could still hear the sounds of carnage raging outside. The battle was won and now it was time to complete his claim on Hell. Now there was truly nothing left standing in his way.

_Crowley!_

Crowley frowned, a strange sense of foreboding settling in his stomach. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt a severing. He squinted, searching inwardly for the cause. Unable to locate its source, he shrugged, lowered the stained scimitar from his shoulder and disappeared.

The cottage was quiet when Crowley reappeared in the living room. He laid the scimitar on the coffee table, careless of the blood still upon its blade. He glanced up towards the ceiling and called, "Murron?"

A great shuffling sounded from the space below the bathroom, followed by the door opening wildly. "Crowley? Is that you?" Murron's voice was cautious. He grinned. He couldn't blame her for that; the last time she'd assumed it had been him, she'd been ambushed by hunters.

"Who else sounds this sexy?" he returned, chuckling to himself. "Come down. I've got a present for you."

"A present?" Murron muttered, partially to herself. She went silent for a moment; he could hear her moving about in the bathroom still. She appeared at the head of the stairs presently, wrapped in her bathrobe and her hair bound in a messy ponytail. Her cheeks were flushed, her skin moist. She looked at him with bright eyes as she cleared the bottom landing and approached him. Spying something amiss, Crowley gestured at her neck.

"What happened to the coin?"

Murron clasped her throat instinctively, looking crestfallen. "It was destroyed."

"How? By whom?"

"The first witch, Patience, and her creepy daughter, Angelica," Murron explained bitterly, moving to sit on the sofa. She cast the scimitar a startled look, pulling back further into the cushions. "Tell me that's not my present."

"What, this?" Crowley lifted the sword from the table and presented it to her, blade-first. "Yes, as a matter of fact, it is. This is angel blood. Fallen, but angel all the same. I thought you might like it for your pantry."

Murron stared blankly at the proffered blade, then took it gingerly by the curved guard. She put it carefully back on the table, grimacing to see the blood stain already forming on the polished wood, and looked back up at Crowley. "They have an angel," she declared quietly. "It - Puriel - almost killed me. At least, that's what I thought he was going to do when he told Patience I needed to be 'cleansed'."

Crowley took a seat beside her, confusion furrowing his brow. "But you escaped?" he prompted. Murron nodded. "What else happened?"

"Not much. I tried to go in for the kill, but she was stronger. I think they were ready to torture me like they did those demons, like in the news. They certainly had the equipment to do it!" She shuddered. "It was like something out of a horror movie. I don't know that I can defeat them. Not yet, at least."

Crowley wasn't sure how to respond. He rubbed his palms together absently. "But you have an idea?"

"I do, actually," Murron nodded. "I had your man, Victor, go find out how to kill an angel."

"A god worked out for me," Crowley replied cheekily. Murron blinked at him. "Nevermind. So Victor was the one to get you out?"

"Yes. Uhm," Murron shifted nervously. "Thank you, for having him look out for me. I would've surely died if you hadn't."

"Just protecting my investment."

Murron sighed and leaned back, a tired smile on her face. "Of course you are. Just as I'm protecting mine." She lightly jabbed at his chest where the sigil still throbbed. "Nice to see it's working. I was a little afraid it wouldn't this time."

"It's working out incredibly well," Crowley assured her. He kept the victory against Baal to himself, as well as Kali's involvement. All she needed to know was that her work had done its job. Hopefully, it would continue, further allowing him to crush anyone else foolish enough to oppose his claiming Hell's throne.

"What will you do now?" Murron asked, rolling her head towards him. He gave a small shrug. "If you're coming home with a bloody sword, I'm guessing you managed to get rid of your big problem?"

"What makes you think I had a problem?"

"I'm not an idiot, Crowley. You come home all beaten up and too weak to even teleport safely and you expect me to not think about it or notice? I might not know the particulars, but I know you were up against something pretty bad."

Crowley held her gaze for a long moment, debating whether or not to tell her about Baal. He chose against it, as he always did when it came to revealing too much about himself or his business. "I was. Now it's gone. That's all you need to worry about."

"So no more coming home half-dead?" Murron prompted, giving his sleeve a little tug. Crowley smiled faintly in response. "Good. You'll turn my hair white."

"Might be a good look for you, darling," Crowley teased, coaxing a laugh out of her. "What about you, then? What's your next step?"

"To do whatever I must to get rid of Patience and her sisters," Murron replied with a small sigh. "Hopefully, your Victor will come back with something and I can go from there." She touched the space where the coin once lay. "I hate not having it. Got so used to it there."

"They're easy enough to replace," Crowley remarked. He gestured briefly. Another coin on a leather cord swung out from his fisted hand. Murron sat up so he could put it on her, tying it securely beneath her hair. He let his fingers rest on her pink skin a moment longer, enjoying the shiver that passed through her. She looked back at him with longing in her eyes, her parted lips trembling. He could feel the heat coming off her in waves and for a moment he considered offering her his company in bed. He refrained, sliding his fingers from her shoulders languidly and turning away. She'd just have refused him, anyway, seemingly still bent on keeping herself in eternal torment. It still annoyed and confused him, but he kept his opinions to himself. He didn't want to invite another emotional display.

"I guess I'll go to bed, then," Murron whispered haltingly, blinking as though waking from a dream. She rose from the sofa in a daze, her head moving this way and that like a sleepwalker as she moved towards the stairs. Crowley watched her go up them, her hand trailing along the guard rail limply. When she'd disappeared into her bedroom, the door closing behind her softly, Crowley sat back and grimaced faintly.

This was beginning to get complicated.


	18. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

The next morning, Murron lay in bed longer than usual. She'd since awakened, but had found little motivation to rise. Instead, she lay curled up on her side, hands tucked beneath the pillow, her mind a jumble of thoughts. There had been something in Crowley's eyes the night before, something that suggested he might have said something affecting. She dwelled on it, turning the memory over and over as if looking for that hidden meaning that she had no choice but to second guess. She hated assuming so much, reading between lines that could have very well never existed. Worse still, she hated having to go downstairs and look into his face and see nothing of the shadow of yesterday written there. She wished she could forget things so easily. But it was impossible. It was growing more and more difficult to hold herself back.

She rolled over onto her back with a heavy sigh. Why was she holding back again? She couldn't even really recall. There had been something more in that last kiss, teasing her with the possibility of it someday becoming more than just a business transaction. She groaned, covering her face with both hands. She was thinking like a love-crazed teenager! If she didn't have something in the works to distract her, she surely would have gone mad by week's end.

The memory of Patience and her spooky daughter pushed Crowley further into the back of her mind, allowing her to sit up and think on her next move. Victor had been gone barely a day and there was no telling how long something like this would take. What if no solution presented itself? What if she'd never manage to finish this?

She shook her head. There was no point in jumping to conclusions. Everything could die, she knew this, including angels. It was just a matter of figuring out how. And unfortunately she couldn't do that still in bed.

Sighing again, Murron threw the covers aside and got dressed. She couldn't avoid Crowley forever, nor did she want to. It was also very possible he wasn't even home. He most likely returned to Hell to finish his business. Just as well. She felt she'd be a bit of a mess if she had to face him now.

The house was silent as she made her way down, bunning her hair as she did so. She looked about idly, as if some sign of Crowley's whereabouts would be revealed to her. The only usual sign was his glass and bottle of Craig on the reading table. Funyn how that habit had carried over, she thought absently as she went into the kitchen. Just as she was about to draw the box of teabags down, the scent of sulfur filled the kitchen and she turned.

"Victor!" she cried, surprised. "Have you found something already?"

"I have," the demon replied, beside himself with excitement. "There's a man calling himself...Balthazar or something like that, who has access to all kinds of supernatural weapons. He's agreed to see you. He thinks he might have something for you."

"That's excellent! And so fast!" Murron exclaimed, all thoughts of her morning tea forgotten. "Where am I to meet him?"

"I can take you to him if you're ready. I only have coordinates, not an actual set destination. I mean, I don't know where we'll land exactly."

"Yes, of course I'm ready. I want to get this taken care of as much as you do! Assuming you do, that is," Murron added hastily, not wanting to speak for him. Victor shrugged.

"He seemed on the up and up. Little weird, though, just a warning," Victor said, reaching out to touch Murron's shoulder. In another moment they were standing in the middle of a large, sprawling lawn. Before them was something that could only be described as a personal villa. Murron stared up at it with wide eyes, not bothering to hide her astonishment.

Victor led her round the back of the manor, stopping at a door inlaid with gilt embellishments. "He didn't want me going inside for some reason. I think he knows I'm a demon. I just know he wants to speak to you and only you."

"That doesn't sound shady at all," Murron remarked as lightly as she could. "You'll be nearby? Just in case?"

"Of course."

Somewhat comforted by that, Murron lifted a hand to knock on the door. She glanced back at Victor, who shrugged. She mimed the shrug and rapped on the door a few times. The sound echoed back at her from within, but no footsteps approached the door. She was beginning to doubt the validity of this guy's claim to help her when the door creaked open of its own accord and a smooth, accented voice called out.

"_Entrer_!"

Murron started. French? It was quickly becoming clear this would be a very unique encounter. She cast Victor another puzzled look, then crossed into the house. The door shut behind her, blocking Victor's curious face from view.

The door was attached to a kind of day room populated by elegant chaise lounges and low wing-backed chairs. A fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth across the way, the orange of its flames matching the clementine of the stucco walls. In the center of this stood a slender man, his back to Murron, a long-stemmed champange glass balanced between two fingers on his right hand. His posture was graceful, but also careless, as he pivoted on one foot and beamed the most brilliant and charming smile she'd ever seen at her.

"Hello, my dear, hello!" he trilled, his voice oddly musical. "Can I interest you in a libation or ten? I've plenty here." He winked, gesturing with his glass to the bottle cooling in an ice bucket on a nearby sidebar. He sauntered over to it, retrieved a second glass and filled it with the bubbly citrine liquid. This he passed to her, which she took without recollecting if she'd consented to a drink or not. "So," he began conversationally, walking in a slow circle around her. "You're here to see about killing an angel, am I right?"

"You would be, yes," Murron replied uncertainly, watching his lazy orbiting with wary eyes. "Can you help me or not?"

"Tch, darling, where's the fun in cutting straight to the chase?" he chided with mock hurt. "I much prefer the drawn-out foreplay before we 'seal the deal'." He laughed low, the sound oddly seductive in her ears. She shook her head as if to clear it, then set the glass of champange on the sidebar with a finality that made him pause. "Or we could talk shop. Whatever you like."

He swung about and leaned against the sidebar, glass held loose and dangling from his hand. "Might I ask why you need to kill an angel?" he asked, suddenly businesslike despite his relaxed posture.

"Would it affect things if you knew the reason?"

He stared at her thoughtfully, the tip of his tongue poking out between his teeth and bottom lip. "It might. Who are you looking to kill?"

"Not that I think it matters, but an angel called Puriel," Murron replied, perplexed. "Why?"

"Simply looking for classification," he replied casually, waving a hand. "It alters what kind of weapon you'll need, you see. Fortunately for you, I happen to have just such a weapon right. Here." He reached behind him and withdrew what appeared to be a silver blade. The hilt was the barest hint of a hexagonal shape, the handle smooth and wandlike. He wiggled it in the air slightly, then looked up at it with satisfied eyes.

"Is that a special angel-killing sword or something?" Murron asked, reaching for it. He whipped it away from her, tucking it behind him once more. "Right. The cost. How much?"

Here he left the sidebar and resumed his lazy circle around her, only this time he appeared to be looking for something. He sniffed lightly at her shoulder, balked a bit, then grimaced. "You've already given away the only thing that could pay for this," he informed her, stepping away. "I'm afraid there can be no further business between us, my dear."

Murron frowned. "You deal in souls?"

"Only thing worth dealing in. Next to sexual favors," he added with a melodic chuckle. When Murron didn't react to his little quip, he cleared his throat. "However, I can see you're quite serious about this so I'll make an exception."

"Why?"

"I'm wondering how far you'll go to get this," he replied, removing the blade again and giving it another little tantalizing wiggle. "And I know who it is you've sold your soul to. And why." He said that last bit purposefully, his blue eyes suddenly very serious. "Really, darling, is that wise? Giving your heart _and_ soul to a demon?"

"I think that's up to me, don't you?" Murron countered. "What else can I give you for that?"

"The sword that killed Baal."

Murron stared at him. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't," he rejoined swiftly, secreting the blade away once more. "The would-be King of Hades isn't the most forthcoming of lovers, is he?"

"I never said he was my lover."

"No, but you'd like to. Don't play dumb with me, darling, it just makes you look like a fool. He knows by now, doesn't he?" Murron's silence was his answer. He sighed somewhat impatiently, though she could detect a note of sympathy beneath it. "I suppose one would have to be a fool to fall in love in the first place," he conceded after a moment. Murron averted her gaze.

"If I can get you this sword you seem to think I have, will you give me the weapon?" she asked, seeking to divert his attention away from her relationship with Crowley. "He did return with a bloody sword, a scimitar, I think. Is that it?"

"Does he frequently bring such things home?"

Murron ignored the suggestion in his tone and shook her head. "I'll get the sword, then." She made to join Victor outside when she paused and looked back at him. "You never said your name. I want to know who I'm dealing with."

"Balthazar," he replied with a soft smile. "Better to not mention that to your little boyfriend, however. It might not go over well."

Murron eyed him curiously. "Why do you even have that sword?"

"The angel blade?" Balthazar prompted. She nodded. He shrugged and took a drink from his glass, despite the fact the champange had since lost its fizz. It seemed more like an evasive gesture; whatever the reason, he wasn't going to tell her easily. "I just happen across things here and there."

She suspected that was the best she'd get out of him. "I'll be back with the sword, then. Balthazar."

"I'll be here. Ciao, darling." Balthazar saluted her with his half-empty glass, turning away when she did. Murron departed in silence, found Victor in the yard, and the two returned to the cottage.

Knowing it would be foolish to waste a rare gift, Murron carefully collected the blood from the scimitar before bringing it back to Balthazar's villa. It had been the blood that Crowley wanted her to have, not the sword itself. The blade itself was fairly nondescript and thus, potentially worthless. Still, if it got her that special angel-killing sword, she'd view it as the most valuable thing in the world.

Victor waited outside again as Murron went to confer with Balthazar. The supernatural arms dealer was lounging in one of the wing-backed chairs when she came in. He tossed her a quick smile and rose to meet her halfway.

"Have you got the sword?" he asked, perhaps a little too eagerly. Murron, the sword tucked away in one of her larger shoulder bags, stared at him for a moment before slowly revealing the blade's pommel and nothing else.

"Got the angel killer?" she countered with a pleasant smile. Balthazar cast her a pinched smile, then produced the angel sword again. He held his hand out, keeping the other held slightly aloft out of her reach.

"I've shown you mine, now show me yours," he quipped, though the humor had left his voice. Murron obliged and pulled the scimitar out completely. She held it out to him by the blade, her hand out as well. They passed each other the swords in silence. Once Balthazar had hold of the scimitar, he inspected it carefully. At his frown, Murron blinked.

"Is there a problem?"

"You've washed the blood off, haven't you?" he asked, disappointed. He sniffed at the blade, then drew back with a surprised grin. "Oh, nevermind the blood, darling, you've got something far more interesting!"

"It's just a sword," Murron insisted, thoroughly confused by his enthusiasm. Balthazar levelled her with a sarcastic look.

"Must be hard being a witch and so narrow in the imagination," he remarked dryly. He admired the scimitar a moment more, then secreted it away. "You have your angel sword. Now never come to me for anything again. I'll not have truck with the King of Hell or his consorts."

Murron balked, taken completely aback by his sudden change in attitude. The business over, Balthazar turned and walked away from her. She watched him exit the room, remained still for a painfully awkward pause, then went back outside to join Victor.

Victor didn't linger after he brought Murron back to the cottage; it was just as well. Murron wanted a moment to examine her recent purchase.

She brought the curious sword into the cellar and set it atop the scrying table, sitting down to stare at it. There was nothing about angel swords in Crowley's grimoire; she'd have to make an entry for it. It didn't seem like much. If anything, it resembled a cheesy fantasy movie prop. She picked it up and tested its weight in her hand. It was remarkably light, almost too light. Would it really kill Puriel? Could she even get close enough to try? She was no swordswoman and could barely play through a game of pool without firing one of the balls at someone. Weapons were quite beyond her. Still, how hard would it be to just stab someone? Was aim really all that important? Of course it was, she chided herself, putting the sword back down and sighing. She'd have to play around with it for a bit, get the feel for it in her grip. Maybe she'd be a natural?

_And maybe you're dreaming, Murron. _she thought, smirking. She continued to think she was in way over her head. Victor was her only real 'companion' in this and he was probably too afraid of Puriel to even try to fight. She'd have to be clever to defeat Patience, she knew that. Angelica hadn't exhibited any magical abilities, but she couldn't afford to assume the girl wasn't a threat. If anything, the child could be used to weaken Patience's stance, maybe get her to back down. She doubted Patience would let her daughter come to harm and as much as it galled Murron to even think about putting a child in danger, that 'child' had taken her original magic coin. And had been willing to help her mother with torture. Yeah, screw that 'children are innocent angels' crap: that kid was no better than her psychotic mother.

"Busy day?" Crowley's voice cut into her thoughts. Murron bounced on her stool with a sharp gasp. "Sorry."

"Of course you are," Murron managed, twisting round to look at the demon king. "When did you get home?"

"Moment ago. What's that you've got there?" Crowley wiggled a finger towards the angel sword. Murron reached behind her and offered it to him. He accepted it and turned it in his hands carefully. "What is this?"

"It's supposed to kill angels. I got it from weapons dealer who specializes in supernatural stuff."

"I see. That was your lead, then?" Crowley took an experimental swipe at the air with the blade. Murron nodded. "And you think you can get close enough to kill the angel?"

"Yes and no. I'm still figuring that part out."

"Have you looked in the book?"

"Not yet. I think I saw something about a binding spell in Enochian. I'll have to doublecheck. You don't know anything about killing angels?" Murron added hopefully. Crowley shrugged, still toying with the sword. "Come on. Not anything?"

"I know they can die. That's been good enough for me so far."

"Thanks. You've been a huge help." Murron spun back around and leaned against the scrying table, head in her hands. "I am so in over my head."

"What about the others?" Crowley pressed. Murron shrugged. "If the angel is with Patience and her brat, try going after the other three. Patience seems to be the head honcho in this coven; worth a shot to try and work your way up the totem pole."

Murron glanced at him over her shoulder, pondering that. It would be worth a try, she had to admit. No way could all of them have an angel on their side. She rose from the stool in silence, moving to the grimoire's lecturn where she kept the list Crowley had given her tucked between its pages. As Crowley continued to mess about with the blade like a kid in a toy store, Murron reviewed the list, then shuffled through the tome for offensive spells. As she read, she heard something fall, followed by Crowley's hissed 'Bollocks'. She smiled despite herself. It was amazing how ridiculous he could be sometimes. Whatever he'd managed to do had put him in fine humor, of which she was thankful. He'd been entirely too sullen lately.

She heard Crowley put the sword back on the scrying table, looking up when he appeared at her side. He leaned his elbow on the lecturn casually. "Anything?"

"Few things. But I think I'd be better off just going in already on the offensive," Murron replied. "I was kind of trying for a dramatic entrance last time." Crowley snorted. "Yeah, it was pretty ridiculous. It also almost got me killed."

"Best to save the dramatics for when you know you're going to win," Crowley advised. "Or if you have a reputation for winning. Either works."

"Well, I have neither at the moment, so I'll just opt for what I can do. Can the dramatics and just burn the place down around her ears."

"Sexy."

"I'm not giving them the chance to put up a defense. How do I know they don't all have torture dungeons in their basements? Better to shoot first and poke through the remains later."

"Again. Very sexy," Crowley grinned, creating lazy circles with his fingertip on the lecturn's surface. Murron chuckled. "Whatever works for you, darling, you do it."

"It's funny," Murron began thoughtfully, closing the grimoire and resting her arms over it, "I never would have imagined talking about killing people before. But things change, I guess. They changed the night I offered myself to you." She eyed Crowley with a mixture of sadness and gratitude. She used to be a good person. Though, these days, good and bad had become entirely subjective. At least she never tortured anyone. For white witches, they sure had some dark methods.

"Regretting it, then?" Crowley asked, his smile turning solemn. Murron shook her head empatically. "Good."

"Just strange, that's all. But I guess strange is the new normal around here, eh?" Murron smiled. They held each other's gaze for a long time, the first moment of peace in quite awhile.


	19. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

With Baal dead, those who'd originally been against Crowley's reign soon turned their coats and joined his ranks with characteristic demonic ease. What few holdouts supporting Lucifer existed were quickly snuffed out. However, even with the extra backup, Hell was proving resistant to dominance in itself.

The demons who'd yet to travel through the Gates were enjoying the relative freedom, no longer held back by the restraining hold of masters like Alastair and Azazel. The crossroads demons ran somewhat amok as well without Lilith there to report to, or Crowley himself. Many went AWOL; these Crowley had to overlook for the moment as his hold on the throne was still tremulous.

In the days following Baal's defeat, Crowley spent much of his time in the Pit, readying it for his vision. The reconstruction, as he jokingly called it, wouldn't take long at all. It was rounding up the demons that were to be given new roles that proved the most difficult. Some still viewed Crowley as the Crossroads King, joyfully ignoring his orders when he gave them. They weren't crossroads demons! they taunted. They didn't have to listen to him! These dissidents were handled swiftly, often being sent to the icy ninth circle of Hell where they could 'cool their heels', as Crowley put it. Someone else had been sent back to the ice to also cool their heels, as it were. Crowley, feeling boastful one evening, descended into the depths of Hell to pay that someone a visit.

The Cage was not a cage at all, at least not in the traditional sense. It was actually a massive cavern that had once been sealed and marked as forbidden to enter. Crowley stepped over the bodies frozen in the ice, ignoring their shuddering cries for mercy and continuing on into the very center of the cavern. There, also partially encased in the ice, hovered a pair of flickering energy beings: Lucifer and Michael.

Lucifer was as brilliant as the star he was named for, shining silver in the chill air. Beside him was Michael, a golden god of an angel, his face still that of the Winchesters' half-brother. Between them another small light shivered. It was around this light they bent over, turning only when Crowley's footsteps alerted them to his presence.

"Hello, boys. And guest," Crowley greeted with mock civility. "Enjoying your chewtoy, then?"

"What do you want, demon?" Michael asked, his voice like a cathedral bell. "Is it not enough that you've chained us here?"

"Me? No, I didn't do this. I wish I could take credit, but I do believe you have the Winchesters to thank for your little problem," Crowley corrected the looming angelic spirit. At Michael's side, Lucifer released a shrill cry of anger. The sound of it was like lightning shattering an iceberg. Crowley winced. "That's entirely unnecessary, Luci, darling."

"You will release me, demon," Michael continued, shifting as best he could within the ice cap to move closer to Crowley's small form. "I have no reason to be here. I need to return to Heaven."

"From what I've heard, no one's been trying to mount any rescue attempts for you, Mikey," Crowley informed him. "In fact, from what _I've _heard, your brother, Raphael, has been planning a coup to take over Heaven. Had I known he was the ambitious one, I would have gone to him first."

"Raphael, however misguided he may be now, would never have helped you defeat our brother, demon," Michael replied. "If you insist on holding one of us here, hold the one who deserves to be here." At that, Lucifer reared back and hammered his forehead into Michael's shoulder. The two tussled like a pair of bulls, shaking the cavern and sending stalactites raining to the ground to pierce the frozen lake. Crowley avoided these obstacles easily and sighed. He let the angels exhaust themselves before speaking again.

"I'm not letting either of you out," he told them firmly. "You're easier to control down here. I have fought too hard to claim Hell to let you self-righteous pigeons ruin it."

"Do you refer to your 'defeat' of our fallen brother?" Michael asked, his tone haughty. Crowley narrowed his eyes. "Fool."

"Baal is dead. I saw to it myself," Crowley insisted hotly. Michael and Lucifer both laughed, the sound echoing like colliding boulders around them. "He is dead!"

"Baal lives, you pathetic excuse for a king," Lucifer boasted. "If beheading the vessel was enough to kill an angel, especially one as powerful as our brother, those Winchesters would have stopped the Apocalypse far sooner."

Crowley felt his stomach drop into his shoes. They were just taunting him, looking to make a fool of him. How could Baal have survived what Kali had done to him? Impossible! "Baal is dead!" he repeated forcefully. "I killed him!" His protests were drowned out by the angels' continuing laughter. Snarling, Crowley rounded and started for the upper levels again, the angels' cruel laughter following him.

Crowley returned to Murron's cottage, face black with rage. He ignored Murron's customary hello as he stormed towards the cellar door. He heard her calling after him, but this, too, he ignored, hellbent on locating the angel sword she'd acquired recently. If Baal was still alive - a fact that still seemed impossible in his mind - Crowley would just have to finish the job with a weapon guarunteed to work.

The angel sword lay on the scrying table where she'd left it. Crowley snatched it up and spun around, intent on smoking Baal out himself, when Murron appeared behind him, both hands held in front of her to halt his frantic pace. Crowley paused reluctantly, eyes a storm of furious emotions.

"I can see something's pissed you off, so I'll make this quick," Murron started carefully, shifting when Crowley jerked to her left as if to dart past her. "One, what the hell happened, and two, where do you think you're going with that?" She pointed at the angel sword clutched in his hand.

"Murron, if you're smart, you'll get the fuck out of my way and let me handle my business," Crowley growled. "As for your angel poker, I'll bring it back. I have a more pressing need for it than you at the moment."

"I get that," Murron replied gently, lowering her hands in what Crowley took as a calming gesture. "And fine, you can have it for now. I won't need it where I'm going today. I just need one thing from you."

"What?" Crowley demanded impatiently, his grip on the blade tightening.

"Come back alive."

At that, Crowley felt his body relax. Of course. Murron was still the only real supporter he had right now. She never questioned his motives or his methods, never once demanded he take another route when dealing with an enemy. And even though he could've taken the blade without a moment's hesitation, she was still willing to step out of the way and let him go to who knew where with it. Nevermind she'd been the one to get him out of the original Baal situation in the first place. Even with the sword, Crowley wasn't usually one for hand-to-hand combat. He would need an escape route.

"Take this," Crowley produced two more coins, putting one in his pocket and the other into her open palm. "I'm trusting you to keep your ears open. The second you know I'm in serious danger, you pull me out of there, like before."

"Crowley, how serious is this?" Murron asked fearfully as she closed both hands on the coin. "You've never asked me to save you outright before. What's going on?"

"I can't risk telling you, love," Crowley replied. "You stay here, don't worry about your witchy problem today. They can't get to you, anyway. Consider yourself my half-step ahead."

"Is it Baal?" Murron asked suddenly. Crowley froze.

"How do you know about Baal?"

"The dealer I got the angel sword from asked for the bloodied scimitar you brought back as payment, calling it the sword that had killed Baal. He wanted the blood on it, but I'd collected it before giving it to him. He was pleased with it, regardless, so he gave me the angel blade. And now you're taking the only thing that can kill an angel. Is Baal an angel?"

Crowley could see he had no means of avoiding the issue now. He was already trusting her to summon him out should things get heavy; explaining the situation seemed the least he could do, though it galled him to be so forthright. He led Murron to the lecturn stool and bade she sit down. When she had, he explained, in as broad terms as he could think of, Baal's importance and what had really happened the night he'd come back half-dead. She listened with fear in her eyes, but said nothing, not even when he'd finished.

"My hold on Hell is shaky still," Crowley admitted after a long silence had passed. "If Baal is still alive, he'll be coming for me. I don't think it's safe here now, not for me."

"But the wards -" Murron protested, partially rising from the stool in alarm.

"Don't protect against angels," Crowley finished for her. "You never had a reason to ward against them before, love, and even if you tried now, I believe he'd see through them. No, I have to do this alone. And away from you."

"I'll still summon you out of there, even if I have to do in the middle of a cornfield in Kansas," Murron swore, grasping his arm in a desperate grip. Crowley offered her a weary smile.

"Stupid girl," he murmured. "Have it your way. But you stay here, away from those witches. You're my ace in the hole and I need you alive."

"I promise. I won't even poke my head out the door."

"Good." He paused, looking into her scared face uncertainly. There wasn't much he could tell her that would soothe her nerves; hell, there wasn't much he could tell himself. Then, he touched his chest. "I've still got this, yeah? It's worked so far. Put your faith in that if nothing else. You need to be ready."

"I'm trusting you to get yourself out alive. I'm hoping you won't need me at all this time," Murron whispered, her voice catching. Her fingers tightened on his arm, curling into his suit jacket sleeve.

"You sell yourself short, darling," Crowley told her quietly. "You can't be doubting yourself now. When I get back, you'll still have something big to face."

"I don't care about what happens to me, Crowley," Murron replied, bowing her head. "If I did, I never would have sold you my soul in the first place." She looked up at him again. "Just come home."

"Always do," Crowley reminded her with a smile. Gently, he loosened her hold on his sleeve and backed away. "Be ready, like a good girl," he reminded her. As he turned away to vanish, Murron was upon him suddenly, her arms wrapped about his shoulders. He felt her bow her face against his back. "Murron..."

"I don't care," she replied tightly. "Just suck it up."

Crowley chuckled. Let her have her moment. She pressed her lips to the back of his head, her mouth moving on words he couldn't hear. When she finally released him, he murmured a goodbye, and blinked out.

Crowley materialized in the center of Baal's fortress. The place was less a castle and more a smoking ruin since the battle. The floor of Baal's throne room was still covered in the angel's blood and the scent of smoke permeated the air. Crowley couldn't be sure what had prompted him to return to the castle; he was certain Baal had abandoned it since his previous vessel had been killed. Still, it remained the only 'lead' he had at the moment.

"Kali!" Crowley bellowed, raising his head to the charred ceiling. "I know you can hear me, goddess! Come now!"

"I thought it was I who was to be looking for the favor, not you, Crowley," Kali's voice sounded beside him. Crowley spun towards her, the angel blade drawn. She stared down at it, and something flickered in her dark eyes: recognition.

"So you do know what this is," Crowley hissed, advancing a step towards the goddess. "When were you planning on telling me?"

"So you know Baal is alive," Kali replied, unimpressed with the demon king's outburst. "He came for me first. I've been running from him since."

"You know where he is?"

"I know he won't stop chasing me. I wager he's on his way here now. Is that why you called me?"

"No, but it may benefit us both in the end," Crowley said tersely, tucking the blade into his coat. "Think you've got a round two in there?"

"Only just. If you have the blade, why do you need me?"

"You're going to hold him down while I plunge this into his heart."

"It may not be as easy as you think, demon," Kali warned him. "He has grown in strength as well as anger. And he will not be alone again."

"What are you saying?"

"He has summoned others from the Pit to aid him in your removal, Crowley. Your hold on Hell is unsteady still, is it not?"

Crowley stiffened. "He can call up Cerberus itself and it still would do him no good!"

"May your bravado keep your head attached to your neck," Kali remarked mildly. She jerked her chin towards the entryway. "He comes."

A cluster of lightning struck the blackened drawbridge beyond the inner courtyard. From the smoke emerged four figures, Baal undoubtedly at the front. Beside Crowley, Kali shifted to her true form, new weapons in three of her four hands. Crowley drew the angel blade from his coat and held it before him. Two against four seemed like crap odds, but there was little either could do in this case. And at least Crowley had a way out. He couldn't speak for the goddess, nor did he really care to. All that mattered was getting out of this alive, secure in the knowledge Baal was finally dead.

Baal passed through the broken doorway, his wings manifest once more. Two of the three with him also boasted wings, but the third did not. This one smelled different, though Crowley couldn't place it. Kali, on the other hand, crouched low, her red eyes widening. Crowley cast her a hasty glance. "What is it?"

"He has brought a god."

"He's done what?!" Crowley looked back at the fourth figure. "Which one?"

Kali inhaled deeply. "Ares."

"Holy mother of sin...!" Crowley breathed, mouth agape. He'd never taken on a god before and he wasn't sure he wanted to start with this particular one. "You can handle him, yeah?"

"We have shared the battlefield before; I know his style. Unfortunately, he also knows mine. This could be complicated."

"No, really? I hadn't thought of that!" Crowley sneered. Ahead of them, Baal lifted his chin proudly.

"I see you've grown a brain, demon," he taunted, gesturing to the angel blade. "But it will do you little good here. My comrades will not give you the chance to get close enough to use it. Though you are welcome to try."

"So who're your dates, Baal? I feel a bit out-numbered here with just Kali," Crowley returned, disguising his anxiety behind a mask of wit. Kali said nothing to this jibe, only twirled her scimitar to prepare herself. Baal laughed, a hollow sound in the empty chamber.

"I had to go very far down into the Pits to find them. Fortunately, my brothers were all too happy to point me in the right direction." Baal held his hand out towards his companions. "Astaroth. Barbatos. And you know Ares, I'm sure. He was all too eager to assist me when he heard Kali was with you. Seems they have old scores to settle."

"He lies," Kali declared. "The god of war and I have never been at odds."

"That isn't what he's told me," Baal replied smoothly. "I will let you decide who is a liar and who is not." He stepped aside to allow Ares to advance. The god, having grown a fair number of feet since entering the room, loomed over Kali. Kali glared up at him, refusing to be intimidated by the other's impressive height. He dwarfed her by three feet, a mighty ten to her seven.

"Take it outside, Ares," Baal instructed. "I will handle the demon king."

Ares beckoned to Kali, who circled him carefully till her back was to the door. She backed out of the chamber, Ares always in her sights. Soon, they'd cleared the bridge and the sounds of their might clashing echoed through the fortress.

Alone, Crowley sized up his opponents. Three fallen to his single blade. He gripped the handle tighter. Without Kali there to distract the others and later to pin Baal, he wasn't sure what route to take. Astaroth was a strong one, that he knew. It wouldn't take much for him to rip Crowley to shreds. Barbatos was far less muscular, favoring the archer's build he'd become known for in legend. In the end, it had to be just Crowley and Baal. He would have to take out the other two first.

No time like the present.

Without warning, Crowley lashed out and sent both Barbatos and Astaroth careening into the far walls. They crashed into the crumbling stone with surprised grunts and collapsed to the floor. They wouldn't be down for long, Crowley realized, and sent forth another wave of telekinetic energy at them. This forced them through the walls and into the moat. He heard them strike the water like rocks and grinned. So much for Baal's pals!

Baal, on the other hand, simply applauded Crowley's efforts in a slow, mocking way. "Very good, demon. I see you've grown in bravery since our last encounter. But you will not have such an easy time with me, with or without your new weapon. For as you can see, I am not quite so unarmed." He withdrew his own blade from behind him. It was older than the one Crowley currently possessed and colored a shining gold. Hopefully, the newer model would prove just as potent.

"I beat you once, can do it again," Crowley boasted, spinning the blade in his hand. "This is it for you, Baal. End of the line."

"We shall see."

Baal launched himself at Crowley, barely giving the demon enough time to raise his weapon to parry his strike. Baal bore down on Crowley with great strength. The demon king shuddered beneath the force of the angel's attack, then summoned a blast of energy to push Baal away. Baal slid against the stone floor, the pressure behind the blow forcing the angel's feet to dig into the ground and create furrows. Crowley hurled flame at the angel as he backed away to create more space between him and his enemy. He wasn't strong enough to take Baal out in a physical fight: it would have to come down to trickery before he could deliver the killing blow.

Baal dodged the fire Crowley kept sending after him, snaking around it as he attempted to close the distance between them. Soon, Crowley ran out of places to back into. This made the fallen angel laugh cruelly as he drew near, cornering Crowley at the very rear of the chamber. "Nowhere left to hide, demon," he taunted, bringing his golden sword up. "I pray you've made peace with yourself, for this is the end!" He drew the blade back and up in a mighty arc, intending to bring it down upon Crowley's head.

In the next instant, Crowley found himself looking at Murron. He was still poised against Baal's oncoming blow, his blade raised high to deflect it. When he realized he was safe, he lowered the sword and leaned against the cellar wall with a weary sigh. Murron, shock and terror plain on her white face, could do little more than stare at him. Now she knew, Crowley thought. Now she knew what he faced. And she was afraid for him, had every reason to be. He looked back at her, summoning a very weak smile as if to assure her everything was under control. She shook her head silently, face crumpling as the tears shining in her eyes flowed down her cheeks. She knew she couldn't help him, not with this. The impotence she felt paled in comparison to Crowley's own.

It would take more than an angel blade to defeat Baal. What that was, Crowley couldn't imagine.


	20. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Now it was becoming clear they were both in way over their heads.

Murron cast another worried glance in Crowley's direction. He was slumped at the kitchen table, head in his hands, the glass of Craig untouched in front of him. It had been an hour since she'd summoned him back to the cottage; he'd been silent ever since. Unable to speak or even begin to assure him he would figure something out, Murron hung back and pretended to do things in the living room. In truth, she kept having to bite down on her knuckles to prevent the scream that constantly threatened to escape her. Angels, fallen or otherwise, were closing in on them and neither were quite as prepared as they'd hoped. With only one blade between them, and possibly useless against at least one of their enemies, their situation had grown dire.

Murron considered returning to Balthazar despite his order to never come to him again. He was her only real source for anything like this; surely he had to know something. If she could discover anything that could help, it would be worth risking his displeasure. He was just a man, after all.

Carefully and as softly as she could, Murron descended into the cellar and whispered Victor's name. The demon appeared shortly after and looked at her expectantly. Murron quickly revealed her plan to return to Balthazar's villa, her hand covering the coin so Crowley wouldn't hear. Victor glanced up at the ceiling, knowing his master was there and could easily disapprove, but at Murron's pleading look, he relented with a brief nod. Placing his hand upon her shoulder, Victor transported them back to the sprawling villa.

Balthazar's expression was grim when Murron had finished explaining her situation. He'd let her into his house with extreme reluctance, coerced by the desperation in her eyes. He struck Murron as a good man with perhaps a few amoral views, but a good man nonetheless. He listened patiently to Murron's tale, sighing heavily when he'd taken it all in.

"I don't know what you want me to tell you," he confessed, spreading his hands. "You've got two angry angels on your tail; what could I possibly do to help with that?"

"Do you have another weapon, maybe? Or a spell? Do you deal in spells, too?" Murron pressed anxiously. Balthazar could only shake his head. Murron fumbled for another suggestion, words and gestures falling short in equal measure. In the end, she dropped into one of the chairs and bent her head to her knees. "Then it's hopeless. We're going to die. Puriel and Baal are going to kill us."

"Now, darling, you mustn't sound so defeated," Balthazar soothed her, coming to stand behind her chair. "There's always a way. You just have to find it. I can't help you and honestly I don't think I would simply because of whom you serve. I already told you I wanted no more business with the King of Hell and yet here you are with your watery-eyed ingenue excuses. Really, my dear, you have me at a disadvantage. Unfair, really."

Murron lifted her head from her lap and cast him a cold glance. "Sorry to be an inconvenience," she said bitterly. "But you're right. If you can't and won't help me, I'm just wasting my time here." She rose and made for the door. Balthazar called out for her to wait; she turned halfway, head cocked to listen, but not look at him.

"Do you know what you summoned with that little sigil of yours? Has he told you that?"

"No, why would he?"

"Because he knows. Ask him. He might actually tell you."

Murron considered this possibility. She continued out without another word, nodding for Victor to take her home again, quite empty-handed.

Crowley wasn't in the kitchen when Murron came up from the basement. His glass remained on the table, still as full as when she'd left. She drew the coin from her pocket and put it to her ear. The faint rustle of fabric sounded from it, suggesting it remained in his suit jacket still. The sound was loud enough to reveal he was still somewhere in the cottage. Being that he wasn't anywhere on the lower levels, she could only deduce he was somewhere upstairs.

She walked upstairs quietly, head cocked to listen for any movement. The creak of the bed drew her into the bedroom and there she found Crowley with his back to her. He lay atop the covers, his suit jacket tossed carelessly on the foot of the bed and his shoes off. If a demon could be depressed, she suspected this is what it looked like. "Crowley?" she pressed softly.

"What." His voice was almost too low to hear, prompting Murron to move closer to the bed. She sat on the empty side of the bed, angled away from him as she felt he didn't want her to look at him just then. "Where were you, then?"

Murron shifted. "Just checking on my only source of information."

"And?"

"Nothing. He still wants nothing to do with me. Or you."

"Can't expect anything less. You are working with a demon, love. Expect a lot of slammed doors."

"Realising that," she replied quietly, absently plucking at her skirt. "We really are on our own now, aren't we?"

"So it would seem."

"And you have no ideas, no tricks up your sleeve as to how we can manage this?"

Crowley sat up, still refusing to look at her, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Murron dared a glance behind her. His hair was mussed, sticking up almost comically. Never before had she wanted to smooth it and hopefully smooth more than that. She knew it wasn't within her power to take away all of his concerns or even help him conceive new solutions to them. There wasn't much she could do for him, period. The silence stretched between them almost unbearably so. Murron felt as though her nerves would snap loud enough for him to hear the tension was so thick.

"I am so close," Crowley said suddenly. "And this...pigeon stands in my way still. I would rip the Grace from him with my bare hands if I could." His voice was deeper than she'd ever heard it, taking on a gravelly quality that made her skin crawl. It had been easy to forget he was a powerful entity, being on his 'good side' and all. To hear him speak of murdering the angel with his hands alone gave her pause. "I knew it had been too easy then."

Murron repositioned herself on the bed to face him. "Is there anything I can do for you, Crowley? Anything at all?" She wanted so much to help him, to take away that self-doubt so evident in his voice. He'd always been so confident and sure of himself; witnessing him at this weak moment was almost indecent. She wanted him to tease her, to joke, to make some cheesy innuendo, anything but what he was doing now. More than anything, she wanted to feel free to take him into her arms and kiss away his cares. But he wasn't like everyone else. To do so could be insulting.

"No, love, I don't think you can," Crowley told her with more kindness than usual. He turned his head so she could see his full profile, his eyes downcast. "You should work on your own problem. At least you can do that, right?"

"I'd never be able to concentrate," Murron admitted with some shame. "I'd be too worried about you."

"Emotional ties are a weakness, Murron. Your enemies will seek it out and use it to destroy you."

"Perhaps, but they're not here right now to know of them." She gave a small, mirthless laugh. "I wouldn't care if they did know. I find no shame in what I feel."

"Terrible, terrible liar..."

"Maybe. But what good does it do for me to be open about it when they have no real outlet?" Murron clasped her hands tightly in her lap, staring down at them with a pinched expression. "If I do feel shame, it's my own to deal with." She sighed, swiped at her eyes, and made to stand. "I'll leave you alone, then."

"Murron."

She looked back at him. She could still see part of his face, his mouth hidden behind his shoulder. She waited. His eyes closed briefly, as if considering what to say next, his brows drawing over them. His expression appeared almost pained to her; her breath caught. Then, when he stretched his hand out to her without another word, Murron swallowed hard on the cry that sprang into her throat. Slowly, she rounded the bed and came to stand before him. He kept his gaze averted as he gripped her wrist and pulled her down beside him. He held her hand in his between them, resting it where their knees touched. Murron made to look at him, only for him to direct her face forward again. Whatever was hidden in his eyes he didn't want her to see. So she kept her gaze ahead of them, staring without seeing out the window. They sat like that for a long time, the only sound being the lazy afternoon song of the birds outside.

Believing it better to distract herself, Murron went back to the cellar to scry for the other witches in Patience's coven. She watched the crystal swing above the table, the gleam of its faceted form blurring as her gaze unfocused and her thoughts roamed. Crowley remained upstairs by himself, undoubtedly still troubled by the seemingly huge task looming before him. Part of Murron hoped she'd be able to discover something about killing angels from her own problems; if the witches had been working with Puriel for a long time, they could have angel lore she and Crowley lacked. There was an impressive chapter on angels in the grimoire, along with the Enochian spells and meanings, but insofar, the only offensive entry was the one she'd made about the sword.

The crystal stopped above a town a few miles from the cottage. Murron wrote the address down mechanically, still not sure her mind was completely in the task at hand. If she went in half-cocked again she could be in serious trouble. Just because these witches supposedly gave off weaker auras didn't mean they couldn't take her down as easily as Patience had. Murron would have to center herself if she expected to return.

She pocketed the address and moved to the altar, kneeling before it. Now would have been a good time to have a patron god or goddess to pray to, she realized with some sadness. How indifferent could they be, really? Would they judge her for working with a demon, let alone giving her heart and soul to one? Her brow furrowed. Gray deities existed, but she knew next to nothing about them. So, in place of a name and a face, she sent her thoughts into the universe, just as she had with Crowley's sigil.

A gentle breath of wind, scented with musk, drifted across Murron's hair. As it stirred the copper locks draped over her shoulder, she felt her concerns melt away, replaced only by the memory of why she did anything these days. She fought for Crowley, even if it was her life in jeopardy thanks to the white witches and not his. Still, her association with him could easily make him a target; no way would an angel permit a demon to live, especially if they knew how to find him. It was a curious thing: her love empowered her to fight. Could love be channeled through black magic? Wasn't it often considered a positive, wholesome emotion?

"Not always," a soft voice said into the stillness. Murron opened her eyes and blinked to see a strange woman sitting at the lecturn. "Love can move mountains, Murron, even if those mountains are volcanoes." The woman turned sad brown eyes to Murron, the kohl around them smudged from what she could only assume were tears. "You dare to love a dangerous thing."

"Who are you?" Murron asked, slowly rising from her kneeling position on the floor. The woman absently plucked the quill from the ink stand and twirled it between her long fingers.

"I am Kali. You summoned me with the sigil inscribed on your demon's chest," she replied quietly. "I have been helping him, though I feel it has done him little good."

"Kali?" Murron breathed, awestruck. "I didn't have anyone in mind when I asked for his protection and you don't strike me as a goddess who would be concerned with protection or love. Why did you respond?"

Kali replaced the quill and faced Murron. "I have loved an impossible thing before as well. He was far more receptive of my love than Crowley seems to be of yours, but then," here she paused, her gaze drifting to the side as memories played out in her mind, "he was an entirely different creature, my Gabriel."

The sadness in Kali's voice caused tears to prickle Murron's eyelids. "Gabriel? Your love was an angel?"

"Yes. A bit cowardly, but he fought when he had to." Kali smiled, a gentle, far-off thing. "He fought his brother so that I might live. In essence, he died for me. And for other things, but those concern me less and less."

"I'm sorry," Murron whispered, bowing her head. Kali made a dismissive noise.

"It does me little good to be bogged down in sentiment. I remember him as well I choose to, as well as he would have me remember him. It is enough." Kali eyed Murron meaningfully. "You would die for Crowley, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, I think I would. I know I would. But I fail to see how that would help him. I'm more useful -"

"Useful?" Kali interrupted, her voice rising. "You value yourself so little that you consider yourself to be merely 'useful' to him?"

Murron was taken aback. "Well...I don't think I value myself any less now than I did before, but I was already prepared to die within the year. At least now I have some meaning behind it."

"Is that what you call it? Meaning? Useful? You have great strength within you, Murron Guthrie, strength you all too often ignore in favor of believing yourself less than you are. You could have broken Patience's hold on you at any time. Crowley is strong because he holds himself in extremely high esteem. His self-preservation, while sometimes a disguise for his cowardice, serves him well. It grants him power. It is desperate power much of the time, but power nonetheless. You say you don't care if you live or die. How do you think that reflects on his opinion of you?"

"He wouldn't tell me even if I asked," Murron insisted, genuinely at a loss. She wasn't sure what Kali wanted her to say.

"That is your excuse?" Kali pressed. "If you demanded it, he would tell you anything you wished to know, even some you might never have thought to ask for. Crowley respects power, Murron, power and determination to survive. It would appear to me you're simply 'phoning it in' with your love."

"Now hang on a second!" Murron started, insulted. Kali silenced her with a gesture.

"Listen and be still. I do not tell you these things to insult or offend you. I am simply trying to understand how you expect to capture and hold the heart of something as strong as Crowley. Do you think your puppy love, your simpering apologetic sympathies and empty assurances make him eager to open up to you? He has placed his life in your hands multiple times and while you have succeeded admirably in these tasks, he still has his doubts because you fail to put that same effort into keeping yourself alive. The demon he assigned to you was not because he wanted to keep you safe. It's because he doubted you could do it yourself."

Murron didn't know what to say. She stumbled against the altar, knocking a chalice over when her hand fumbled behind her for support. She wanted to deny Kali's words, to swear she did care about herself as much as Crowley cared about himself, but the words died on her lips before they could be given breath. Everything the goddess said rang true. True and desperately painful. She wanted to collapse to the ground, to stay there, burdened by the truth of her own weakness.

Crowley had confessed to being annoyed, even angry, by her self-denial. At first Murron thought he simply didn't understand the impact intimacy would have on her emotions, being a demon and potentially incapable of such things. There was no honor in carrying the weight of her desire and longing for him, especially when it seemed to hold her back. The skills he'd given her, possibly granted so that she might achieve her full potential and surprise herself? To maybe take a moment to stand up for herself, and only herself? She'd talked a big game a lot of the time, but it was always with the thought of Crowley in the back of her mind. Corrine? He'd done more than she had. The demons at her home? Crowley again. She was like the annoying sidekick the hero kept around simply because if they didn't, the sidekick would get itself killed.

Kali slid from the stool and moved to stand beside Murron. She placed a warm hand on Murron's shoulder. "Again, I do not tell you these things to upset you. You need to feel these emotions and these desires in order to fully realize your worth. If you're to stand with the King of Hell, you need to be more than just a 'witch'. You need to be worth his time."

Murron looked up at Kali, eyes wide. It was as if the goddess' touch had awakened something inside her, something that was now entirely too powerful to ignore. The heat from Kali's palm seeped into Murron's skin, spreading out from the point of contact to other parts of her body. She drew in a deep breath, alarmed by the intensity of her arousal. She took a few steadying breaths more, centering the fire that now settled inside her center.

Kali drew away from Murron, a secret smile curling her red lips. "Now go to him. You've waited long enough."

Murron cast the goddess another look, eyes bright with gratitude. She returned the smile, her heart racing within her chest. At Kali's encouraging nod, Murron raced up the cellar steps and ascended the stairwell with renewed determination.


	21. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

The sky had darkened to a moody blue. The first weak rays of moonlight streamed through the gauzy curtains, casting a pallid silver glow over the bed where Crowley still lay. Murron, heart thundering in her chest, stood at the threshold, the reality of what she was about to do washing over her. Then, with a sigh that seemed to release all of that self-doubt into the ether, she went to the bed.

Crowley looked up when she approached, his expression beginning to show annoyance, but the light in her eyes seemed to give him pause. Murron gazed down at him, her entire body radiating with the heat Kali had granted her. Gently, she reached out to brush his hair from his forehead, smoothing the wild tempest his restless fingers had produced. For a long moment, they held each other's gaze. Crowley shifted into a sitting position, Murron's soothing caress still on his skin. He stared at her curiously as she knelt between his knees and cupped his face between her palms. With slow deliberation, she angled her face towards his, dropping delicate kisses against his parted lips. Before he could return the kiss, she'd moved to brush her lips against his jawline up to behind his ear. She smiled against his skin when he drew up from the contact.

"Murron," he breathed, surprise in his voice. "What are you doing?"

"What I should've done a long time ago," Murron replied, drawing up and pressing her body against his. "I'm taking you up on your offer of making things..._interesting._"

"Oh."

Satisfied with that, Crowley encircled Murron's body with his arms, pulling her closer to him. The kiss started soft, then increased in urgency. Soon, Crowley had pulled Murron onto the bed and was now above her. Murron stroked his face with the backs of her hands, letting the glow of her love for him shine in her eyes. In the semi-darkness, his expression was difficult to read, but she didn't need to analyse his part anymore. She let her own love guide her, her own passion to direct her caresses. This was her moment, her time. No longer would she deny herself the feel of him against her, to savor the curve of his lips when he kissed her. His voice in her ear, that deep husky sound that had weakened her knees more times than she could count, the feel of his tongue sliding across the expanse of her exposed throat. She clung to him, but gone was the desperation that had for so long fueled her desire. He was willing to please her, and she was prepared to do the same for him. The heat between them was mutual.

Crowley drew his hands down her sides, his thumbs just brushing the rise of her breasts and making her arch into his touch. Murron lifted her arms above her head, her breath coming in sharp gasps whenever his fingers grazed her naked skin. Soon, those warm, questing hands were beneath her blouse, fingers creeping below the cups of her bra to tease the quivering flesh there. He bent his lips to the hollow of her throat, kissing a path down her skin as his hands shifted her blouse to further expose her to his touch. He drew it over her head and along her raised arms, smiling when she flung it aside. In another moment, her bra was gone as well, tossed over the edge of the bed to join her blouse.

Murron inhaled deeply when Crowley's warm lips brushed across her right nipple, his fingers kneading the left with remarkable tenderness. She slid her fingers through his soft hair luxuriously, finally satisfying a months' long urge to do so. There were no words for the happiness welling inside her, so she contented herself to simply feel. To feel him, the heat of his kiss on her skin, the slick softness of his tongue as he it drew across her breasts. While she also wanted to please him, she allowed herself to be selfish. She'd more than earned it.

Murron coaxed Crowley to look up at her. Mutely, she telegraphed her desire to feel him, skin to skin. He smiled, a secretive curling of his parted lips. They sat up together, Murron's fingers deftly undoing the buttons of his dress shirt as he tugged his tie free. Murron leaned forward and kissed his collarbone, her hands exploring every inch of his now bare chest. She loved the feel of his body, how soft he was and how _real _he was. As she lavished his skin with her lips and tongue, he unbuckled his belt and opened his trousers. Murron pushed at the waist of his trousers, exposing the shallow dip between his hip and his thigh. In turn, Crowley pulled at her skirt, hands creeping beneath the waistband of her panties and sliding them off her as well.

Now completely naked, Crowley pulled Murron into his lap. She curled her legs around his hips, drawing in a sharp gasp to feel him press against her insistently. He smothered her cry with his mouth, kissing her with more passion than ever. He shifted her against him, grunting into the kiss when he slipped inside her. Murron gripped him tightly with her thighs, pulling him deeper into her. The moved gingerly at first, Murron still adjusting to him, then they began to rock together in a steady rhythm. Murron rolled her hips against him, pressing her breasts to his chest eagerly. He held her to him, suckling her neck between heated kisses.

Their movements grew harder, each thrust of Crowley's hips steadily jarring Murron's body against him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face against his shoulder, eyes squeezed tightly as wave after wave of intense pleasure rocked through her. She felt his teeth bite into her shoulder, causing her to cry out in a mixture of arousal and surprised pain. His arms gripped her about the waist beneath her arms, one hand tangled in her copper hair possessively. As he moved upward into her, he gave her hair a sharp tug that forced her head back. Lost in the sensation of him inside her, Murron leaned back in his grasp, clinging to his shoulders for support.

In an eyeblink, he had her on her back and was above her, continuing to thrust deeply into her. It was almost to much to bear and soon, Murron felt her body tighten around him. She opened her mouth on a silent scream of pleasure, shuddering as her orgasm moved through her. Crowley stilled himself inside her, holding her to him tightly, and bit into her skin once again. Even as her pleasure subsided, his was just beginning. He resumed his steady rhythm, rolling his hips to plunge deeper and deeper inside her. Then, when Murron felt him pulsate inside her, Crowley threw his head back, his eyes flashing their crossroads red glare as his pleasure mounted and emptied into her. For a moment, the sight of those demonic eyes frightened her, only to be quickly replaced by a second orgasm.

Their bodies hot and slick with sweat, Crowley moved out of and off Murron, slumping beside her. Murron took a few moments to catch her breath, the sensation of his filling her still throbbing between her thighs. Her hair stuck to her cheeks like seaweed; she brushed it away with a shaking hand and turned onto her side to face him just as he rolled onto his back. His arm extended beneath her shoulders and she shifted closer to him, pressing a kiss to his chest. They lay together in silence, their labored breathing slowly calming.

After a second, less exhausting silence, Crowley asked in a thick voice, "What the hell did you do downstairs?"

Murron laughed, the sound dying into a sheepish groan. "I don't think you'd believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

"I had a visit. From Kali. She...well, she opened my eyes, let's just put it that way. Don't badger me for information right now; I want to enjoy this."

"Fair enough."

Murron closed her eyes contentedly, smiling when Crowley's fingers began to absently stroke her uppper arm. She stretched an arm over him, the other tucked between them comfortably, and nestled her head into the hollow where his shoulder and chest met. Idly, she ran her hand over him, enjoying the rise of his middle and mentally likening it to a small hill. "I like that you're not stick-thin," she remarked suddenly. Crowley shifted his head against hers; she could feel the puzzled frown appear on his face.

"Did you just call me fat?"

"No, I said I'm glad you're not stick-thin. Completely different thing."

"You called me fat."

"I did not." Murron gave his belly a gentle pat. "Besides," she added casually, "you're more chubby than fat."

"Thanks," Crowley replied, his voice heavy with sarcasm. Murron grinned. The comfortable silence fell between them again. Crowley's fingertips continued to run their lazy trails up and down her arm, the gentle action lulling her to sleep beside him. The warmth of him, pressed so close to her naked skin, the way his leg lay casually entangled with her own, all of these things soothed her. She tried not to think about how amazing it could have been if she'd gone through with this sooner. Part of her also believed it wouldn't have been nearly as fulfilling. The feelings she'd had for him in the beginning had been idealistic. As the truer emotions replaced those girlish fantasies, she knew it wouldn't have been enough then. No, it happened at precisely the right time.

Murron gave Crowley a gentle squeeze. When he made a surprised noise, she chuckled quietly. She didn't care how undignified it was to cuddle the King of Hell: it was her moment, her time, and she would do whatever she damn well pleased with him. It came as no surprise that, by being beside him in such an exposed, vulnerable state, she felt herself becoming aroused again. She slid her bare leg up his suggestively as her wandering hand dipped beneath the covers and brushed across him. Crowley started up at the bold move, then turned fully towards her with a devilish smile on his handsome face. Murron managed a small titter before his kiss silenced her. In another tangle of limbs and hushed words, the unlikely lovers joined again and again as the night wore on, slowing only when the first pink blush of dawn lightened the bedroom windows.

It was late afternoon when Murron lifted her heavy head from the pillows. Her entire body felt deliciously sore and only a little abused. She smiled dreamily and hugged the pillow to her face with a pleasant little sigh. She was conscious of being alone, which would have bothered her if they hadn't spent the whole night wrapped up in each other.

She stayed in bed for a bit longer, then rolled out from under the tangle of sheets. She groaned when the muscles in her legs refused to support her, forcing her to guide herself along the wall to the bathroom. Shower first, then business. There really wasn't time to enjoy the afterglow; those witches were still out there and she hadn't spent the night in carnal bliss just to forget about it come morning. The strength she felt now would aid her considerably, and easily lead to a victory. These thoughts followed her into the shower, the hot water granting her further determination as stability returned to her legs.

Murron found Crowley in the cellar, poring over the grimoire with a studious expression. The angel sword hung from his belt, the blade peeking out from beneath his suit jacket. She moved to stand behind him, resting her chin on his shoulder comfortably. He reached around and gave her a small pat. "What're you looking for?" Murron asked, peering at the illuminated pages.

"Seals. Notably binding seals. Or anything that could trap an angel. Ah-ha! I knew I'd written something about holy oil down before!" Crowley stabbed at the page with a triumphant finger. Murron stood on tiptoes to get a better look at the holy oil he was referring to.

"Do you have any of that?" she asked.

"Used to. I can get more easily. This is me we're talking about, after all," he replied confidently. Murron smiled. It was good to hear him speak so surely again. She was worried Baal had beaten - literally - it out of him. She should have known better.

"Where can you get more?"

"Jerusalem. Won't take me but a moment."

Murron stumbled forward, the support of his back no longer under her. She gripped the lip of the lecturn, steadying her footing just as he reappeared bearing a small corked clay urn. It was roughly the size of a peanut butter jar and looked to be thousands of years old. Crowley shook the earthen jar experimentally, grimacing to discover how little there truly was.

"I have maybe one shot at this," he murmured. "I'd better make it a good one."

"You know how to use it, right?"

"Of course. It's similar to Devil's Traps. You just have to trick them into the ring of holy oil, then set it on fire. Easy-peasy. Baal's an idiot and will fall for any trick I can throw at him. Once I have him trapped, I can stab him with this," he touched the blade at his hip, "and it'll be over. Like I said, easy-peasy."

"What made you think of the oil now? What changed?" Murron asked. Crowley smiled at her mysteriously, but said nothing. "I share my body with you all night and you're still going to shut me out?" Her tone was light. Crowley shrugged.

"Sometimes a good shag is all it takes to clear the cobwebs," he replied sagely, pocketing the oil inside his jacket. "Also, you might be interested to know Kali left you something. It's over there." He gestured to the scrying table. Something glinted silver in the faint candlelight; Murron squinted curiously at it as she neared the table. Another angel blade sat beside the scrying crystal, complete with a handwritten note in elegant script. Murron lifted it and read it, smiling softly:

_I do not give this to you lightly. This is Gabriel's archangel blade; use it to kill Puriel. I hope you followed my advice._

_- Kali_

Murron carefully folded the note and slipped it into her skirt pocket. Intense gratitude for the Hindu goddess welled inside her heart and she turned back to Crowley with it bright in her eyes. He gave her a little knowing smile as he touched the sigil on his chest. She'd secured Crowley's safety already. Now it was time to do the same for herself.


	22. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

The cries of the demon strapped to the chair echoed through the house. Grace, up in her kitchen preparing two cups of tea and humming to herself, seemed unaffected by the noise. She went through the motions casually, as though eerily accustomed to the sounds. Down below in the furnished basement, Grace's sister, Faith, was busily doing the Lord's work. They'd found this particular demon, who'd taken it upon itself to occupy an innocent young man whose body now suffered due to its selfishness, that evening, skulking about the house.

Grace returned to the basement bearing two cups of tea. "Has he said anything yet?" she called out sweetly to her sister. The demon's mounting scream was her answer. "Guess not!"

Faith was bent over the demon, a strange knife in one hand and a bottle of holy water in the other. The demon was smoking and bleeding, one eye swollen and the other damaged enough to be blinded. This didn't seem to concern Faith as she dribbled the water over the blade, then stabbed it into the demon's chest just above its heart. Its flesh sizzled, the wound flashing a crackling yellow.

"You might want to start talking, dear," Faith advised the demon, twisting the blade just so. It hissed out a harsh breath between clenched teeth. "Where are they? We know you've been working with them."

"Go to Hell, bitch!" the demon snarled.

"Quite the contrary, filth," Grace replied conversationally from behind her sister. "Our souls are bound for Heaven, where we will be rewarded for our services. You, on the other hand, are bound only for oblivion if you do not reveal their location."

"Then hurry up and get it over with!" the demon spat bloodied saliva in Faith's direction. She avoided it easily and gave the knife another vicious twist. The demon howled in mad laughter, throwing its head back. "Anything you can do to me is nothing compared to what he would do! You both suck!"

"Shall I summon him?" Grace asked her sister in an undertone. Faith frowned at the cackling creature before her. "He would want to see this, I'm sure. He could get their location out of it in no time."

"Patience won't like us taking him from her," Faith replied, withdrawing the knife from the demon's chest and turning away to clean it off. Grace clicked her tongue.

"Patience will just have to learn to share, then! It isn't fair to the rest of us if she's the only one he blesses!"

"You know it's not up to us, sister," Faith reminded her. "Ever since Patience first got into contact with him, she's been...different. Haven't you noticed?"

"If by different you mean arrogant, then yes, I have noticed," Grace supplied bitterly. "She has accepted a sin to her bosom; how can he associate with her still, knowing that?"

"It would be arrogance to assume anything," Faith pointed out sagely. Grace immediately sobered and nodded. "But you may be right. We might need his help with this."

"Prudence ought to be summoned as well," Grace said quickly as she hurried towards the basement steps, Faith at her heels. "I fear we may need her help. She's very...persuasive."

"Agreed."

The sisters emerged from the dark cellar into the warmth of the kitchen and immediately clasped their hands in prayer. After a moment's silence, the beat of wings sounded and Puriel descended into the room. He looked to the sisters in turn, his marble face stoic. "Why have you sent for me?"

"We have a demon servant to the King of Hell," Grace replied. "We are certain it knows the location of him and his whore."

"And it has not revealed this yet?" Puriel prompted. Both women shook their heads. "I see. I will get it to talk. In the meanwhile, summon Patience. She has had first-hand contact with the whore and will know her weaknesses."

"What of Prudence?" Faith interjected. Puriel's lips curled in a displeased scowl.

"She has fallen. I no longer wish for her association within your circle," the angel replied coldly. This came as a surprise to both women, who looked between them in shock. "It is unimportant. Get Patience. Now."

"Yes, Lord Puriel," the sisters replied as the angel went down into the basement.

Patience arrived in a great deal of pomp and ceremony an hour later, Angelica in tow. She pushed past the sisters impatiently and went to join Puriel in the cellar. The angel had been dealing with the demon for some time now, the creature's screams so loud they permeated the house's upper levels.

Angelica approached Grace and Faith and solemnly asked if they had discovered anything from the demon. It unsettled even those seasoned witches to hear a child speak so plainly and calmly about torture and monsters. Both sisters felt Patience had been wrong in associating her daughter in the circle so young, especially after they'd begun to help local hunters find their targets. While they believed they were doing God's work and would be rewarded as such at the end of their lives, something about little Angelica, barely nine years old, participating in the methods bothered them.

"Why don't you go read the Good Book in the living room, dear, and let us handle the bad man?" Grace offered, bending to smile kindly into the girl's blank face.

"Mommy doesn't try to get me out of the way like you do," Angelica declared. "I'm going downstairs. I want to see the bad man." She made for the cellar door, stopping when Faith crossed her path.

"No, you are to stay up here with us, dear," the older woman insisted firmly. "It is best."

"You're not my mommy," Angelica replied simply and raised a hand. Faith had barely a moment to react when she found herself cast aside. Grace caught her sister before she could be injured, staring back at Angelica as the little girl disappeared down into the basement.

Puriel and Patience stood before the demon's steadily-weakening vessel, faces contorted in intense displeasure. The demon had told them nothing, denying even any association with the King of Hell or his whore. "You were the thing that invaded my sacred space, demon, do not think I do not know you," Patience said coldly, driving the special blade into his upper arm and prompting another cry of anguish from it. "You will tell us where she is!" She drove it into its flesh again and again, each violent stab punctuated by its screams.

"Mommy, I want to try," Angelica's voice sounded behind her mother and the angel. Patience turned to her daughter.

"You're not ready yet, darling," she told her soothingly. "But you may stay and observe. You will need to do this one day."

"Let her do it," Puriel ordered suddenly. "She should know what to do now."

"She is but a child, my lord!" Patience protested, moving to stand in front of her daughter protectively. "I will do anything you ask, but do not ask this of my daughter!"

Puriel pushed Patience out of the way, snatched up the knife from the witch's hand, and passed it over to Angelica. Angelica gripped the imposing weapon in her small hand and approached the demon. It stared down at her, swollen eyes creasing as it laughed.

"You can't be serious! She can't do anything to me!" it sneered. In response, Angelica stabbed it in the thigh, hilt-deep, and twisted. It writhed against its bonds, tears spilling from its damaged eyes. "Enough!" it gasped. "Enough! I'll tell you!"

Puriel quickly joined Angelica and gripped the demon's chin in his hand, forcing it to look up. "Tell me!" he roared.

The demon's eyes flicked swiftly down at the Devil's Trap then back up at Puriel's face. It grinned maliciously. "Oh, I'll tell you all right. I'll tell you anything you want to know!" With that, it opened its mouth wide and expelled its black essence. Puriel released the thing's face and fell back in surprise, crying out when the smoke unfurled out and blinded him. Patience quickly began chanting the exorcism, but it was too late. The demon had pushed itself into Angelica's body.

It spun round on the angel and witch, grinning with the girl's innocent face. "Follow me, if you can!" It laughed a childish shrill laugh and vanished.


	23. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

"Has Victor been around lately?" Murron asked Crowley one evening when they were both down in the cellar. Crowley shrugged, shaking his head. Murron frowned. "I remember mentioning the other witches' locations to him before he disappeared. I hope he hasn't gone and done anything stupid."

"He was pretty stupid when I found him, so," Crowley remarked mildly, turning a page in the grimoire. Murron sighed softly, concern for the ambitious demon growing. "I wouldn't worry about him. He might be an imbecile, but he's still a demon. He can take care of himself." Crowley turned on the stool and gave her a quiet smile. "And so can you."

"Which is to suggest I don't need him anymore?" Murron asked, only slightly comforted by his confidence in her. "I still can't blip in and out at will; Victor's kind of my demonic taxi. Without him, I'm kind of vulnerable, don't you think?"

"Only if there's anyone left to take advantage," Crowley pointed out. "Take care of everything and you shouldn't have a problem."

"Well, I certainly wouldn't feel right bothering you to swing by and get my ass out of the fire," Murron replied. Crowley shrugged again. "Speaking of which, why are you holding back?"

"From what?"

"Getting Baal. You've got the angel sword now. Why haven't you gone and killed him yet?"

"I have my reasons," he informed her quietly, returning to the grimoire. Murron regarded him carefully for a moment. "I can feel your suspicions, love. Kindly turn your iron gaze elsewhere."

"I think I should look for Victor," Murron declared and started for the basement steps. Just as she reached the top landing, a violent bang sounded in the kitchen. Murron shot a look back at Crowley, who returned it casually. Murron gestured at the closed cellar door. "Aren't you a little worried about that?"

"Not at all. It sounds like what I was waiting for has arrived," Crowley replied with lofty arrogance. Murron looked away briefly towards the door again; when she glanced back at Crowley, the demon had disappeared. She heard him speaking to someone in the kitchen and emerged into the bright room, blinking. When her eyes adjusted, she gasped aloud to see Angelica standing in front of Crowley.

"Get back!" she cried, rushing forward, hand raised defensively. Crowley put his own hand out and gently warded her off. Murron stared at him, open-mouthed. "What the hell is going on? Why is she here?"

"It's me, Murron," 'Angelica' interjected. "Victor."

Murron gawked. "Victor?! What're you doing in Angelica?"

"Mr. Crowley asked me to get close to her and possess her," Victor explained.

"For what?" Murron looked between the possessed child and Crowley.

"Bait," Crowley replied patiently. "It occurred to me that even with the angel blade, I'm still not strong enough to take out Baal alone. I figured I'd use your angel problem to handle my own."

"I'm lost," Murron admitted. "Why would having a possessed Angelica help with that?"

"Simple. Your Patience comes looking for her daughter, bringing her angel pal with her. We -"

"'We'?" Murron interrupted incredulously. Crowley pressed his lips together briefly, eyes closing as if to regain his patience.

"Yes. _We_ will then go to Baal and the two featherheads can duke it out themselves, leaving us alone. Two birds, one stone, blah blah blah."

"Brilliant, isn't it?" Victor chimed in, grinning. Murron side-stepped away from him, still unnerved by the child's presence, possessed or otherwise.

"But why would I go? I can't take on an angel!" she protested. Crowley smirked, as did Victor, the expression comical on the little girl's face.

"I'm not asking you to. However, Baal brought two of his fallen partyboys to our last double date. I'll need your help dealing with them," Crowley explained. "Also, Patience will undoubtedly be with Puriel; you can take her out as well."

"So, the three of us versus two angels, two of the fallen one's little friends, and an angry psychowitch who may or may not bring her own party with her?" Murron prompted. "You see this working out, how?"

"Have a little faith in yourself, for sin's sake, Murron," Crowley returned a little heatedly. "Or did I not fuck enough sense into you?" Murron made an indignant noise while Victor stifled a snicker. "Because I'll happily do it again."

"Guess you guys were busy, too, huh?" Victor quipped, succumbing to the impish laugh he'd tried to hold back. Murron glared down at him, wanting to feel free to clip him about the ear. Crowley, on the other hand, was smiling smugly, thoroughly pleased with his servant's comment. Murron sighed and threw her hands up in defeat.

"Fine. What have I got to lose?"

"Absolutely nothing you haven't already given away, love," Crowley assured her, sliding his finger down her nose. "It's been safe with me so far; would I ever steer you wrong?"

"It might not be your plan to, but icebergs in the night and all," Murron muttered, wrinkling her nose. "So, when are we going to do this?"

"Soon. I wager it won't be long before they come looking for the kid," Crowley replied, all seriousness again. "I'd rather not be caught with my ass in the wind, if you get my meaning. We'll have to be quick about it, and ensure that your angel is following us. It won't work otherwise."

"Guess that means we have to plant Victor somewhere and keep a step ahead of Puriel and Patience," Murron mused. She looked down at Victor. "Where were you when you possessed Angelica? Not Patience's house, I'm guessing."

"No, I was actually tortured a good bit before the angel was called," Victor explained. Murron immediately felt bad for having been annoyed with him moments before. Victor caught this and waved a careless hand. "I'm fine. It sucked, but I'm fine. That meat-suit I left isn't, but hey, new clothes and all." He gestured down at Angelica's body. "Obviously, I won't possess her forever, but for now, so long as she's in one piece, so am I."

"Who was torturing you?" Murron asked.

"Two of the other witches. A Grace and Faith. I think they were sisters."

"Did they seem strong to you?"

"I guess. I've endured worse."

"Victor here had to deal with my brand of persuasion before he pledged himself to me," Crowley explained. "As you can imagine, my methods top anything a human could do, sick fuck or otherwise."

Murron didn't want to think about that and instead looked back down at Victor. "How did you manage to get Angelica?"

"She wanted to poke at me a bit. Her mom originally said no, but the angel said she should learn how to do it sooner or later," Victor replied with a shrug. "Sick, isn't it?"

"Not really," Murron shivered, recalling the angel's cold stare and even colder presence. "It seems like something Puriel would've done. And I'd like to say Patience being against it wins her points in my book, but the bitch tried to Inquisition me. No, she can burn in Hell for that."

"And she will," Crowley rejoined with a sadistic smile. "I'll have a lot of fun with that one."

"If I'm around then, let me watch, would you?" Murron chuckled. Crowley's smile spread into a pleased grin.

"Careful, love. We might have to sear a few nasty things onto the kid's mind if you keep talking dirty like that," the demon king purred. Murron didn't bother to hide her intrigued smile. She was quite done denying herself the pleasure of his company.

Victor cleared his throat, an unusual sound while he sported Angelica's voice. Murron looked back at him expectantly. "I can stay down here if you two want to...have a little pre-war powwow?"

"That doesn't sound like such a bad idea," Murron grinned, sliding a suggestive look Crowley's way. He returned it, his gaze heavy with innuendo. Taking Crowley's arm, Murron giggled as the demon king transported them to the bedroom.

Murron draped herself across Crowley's body like a lazy cat and stretched languidly with a happy sigh. She nestled her cheek into the small patch of soft hair on his chest, enjoying the feel of his torso rising and falling with each breath. "I always feel like such an idiot for not doing this sooner," she murmured, taking up one of his hands and tickling the palm with her fingertips.

"Nah," Crowley replied, his voice thick with contentment. "It wouldn't have been nearly as fun then. You were still sporting that stick up your ass."

Murron pinched his palm briefly, causing him to start up a little and protest. "Don't think I haven't yelled at myself for it enough without your reminding me of it." She kissed the offended spot and resumed her gentle strokes. He relaxed again beneath her. "It doesn't matter, anyway. It's done and, as you say, more fun this way."

"Mm."

Murron walked her fingers up Crowley's arm absently. "Do you think your plan will work?" she asked softly. Crowley shrugged, an awkward gesture when lying down.

"Can't be any worse than the other attempts I've made," he returned. "I'm counting on Puriel looking at Baal as a bigger threat than you or I. Angels hold eternal grudges."

"Puriel does strike me as the type who would," Murron agreed. Her eyes were growing heavy, too relaxed to focus on the fight ahead for much longer. She shifted off Crowley's chest and turned onto her side, smiling when he rolled over as well and draped an arm over her waist. She curled his arm around her, drawing his hand to her lips to kiss his knuckles affectionately. If they survived, she wanted to spend the rest of her time alive just like this. If she could, she would die this way, safe and warm with his naked body behind her and the stir of his breath in her hair. She gripped him to her tighter, almost unconsciously, and leaned into him further. Her breath quickened when she felt his lips press against her bare shoulder and lingered there. A crazy thought came to her and, unable to keep it to herself, asked in a whisper, "Can you fall in love?"

"Demons don't fall in love."

"I'm not asking about demons. I'm asking about you."

Crowley grunted softly, as if reluctant to discuss it. "Not the way you're thinking."

"So, how does it work, then?"

"Must we talk about this?"

Murron considered changing the subject, mentally shook her head, and pressed on. "Yes. I want to know."

He sighed and buried his face in her tangle of hair. His words came fast and muffled. "It's more possessive, I suppose. Without coming off as punny, you don't exactly get to be a demon without coveting something. Sometimes it's worldly things, other times it's people. In my case, it's always been power. Power over my enemies and power over my own survival. If I love anything, it's that." He paused. Murron drew in a breath to feel him pull her against him even more. It was so poignant, he didn't have to say anything more. She turned in his embrace and laid her forehead against his, both hands coming up to cup his face tenderly. Her thumbs stroked the crest of his cheeks, savoring the feel of him as she always did. She wanted to say it, to finally give those words life, but she didn't. Instead, she remained as she was, sensing it would come when the time was right and not a moment sooner.

"We're going to survive this, aren't we?" she asked softly. Crowley opened his eyes, his expression almost unreadable if she hadn't seen it a thousand times before. It was the briefest of doubts, quickly replaced by solid confidence that never failed to reassure her. He brushed her hair away from her face, the back of his hand sliding down her cheek with more tenderness that she'd ever felt from him. She angled her face into his touch, her eyes closing just as his mouth claimed hers. Crowley tucked his arms under Murron and shifted her till he was above her. When the kiss ended, he looked down at her, his gaze steady.

"Yes."

Murron gripped the back of his head and drew their faces together again, wanting to commit the feel of his lips on hers to memory. Even though she believed him, the fear of dying before she was ready settled like ice in her stomach. She needed the heat of him to melt away that fear, to continue to comfort her mind that they'd get out of this mess alive and together, even if it would only be for a few months more. It didn't terrify her to know she was going to die soon; she'd given everything to Crowley and trusted him to tend to those precious gifts with as much compassion as his kind was capable of. If possession was how a demon loved, let him possess her. She wanted him to.

She welcomed him within her again with a satisfied sigh, never wanting to leave his arms or his demanding kisses. Angels and demons be damned: this was all she wanted, all she craved. Let them try and take him away from her. She'd kill them all if it meant they could lose themselves in each other again and again. This determination she put into her kisses, surprising him with their intensity. Just let them try to take her king. She'd end them all.


	24. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

The first step in their plan was to draw Patience and Puriel out, then lead them to Baal's fortress. To do this, Murron and Victor, still possessing Angelica's body, would have to expose themselves just long enough to give their enemies their scent. Crowley would be waiting for them in the forest near Baal's castle. Together, they would guide Patience and Puriel into the thick of it and hopefully come out of it with their skins intact.

While Victor waited downstairs in the living room, Crowley and Murron lingered upstairs. Crowley stood with his hands in his trouser pockets while Murron mentally prepared herself for the fight ahead. The idea of two angels clashing in front of her admittedly gave her pause; she'd never seen Baal, but based on the level of damage he'd inflicted on Crowley, she knew he was a formidable enemy. Puriel was no slouch, either, nor was Patience. And with her daughter in danger, Murron knew Patience wouldn't pull her punches. And neither could Murron. If she was going to do this, she had to go in for the kill.

Crowley glanced over at her, his gaze taking her in. "Ready, then?"

Murron took a deep breath, slid her fingers through her hair, and nodded. "As I'll ever be."

"Good. One more thing."

"What's that?"

In response, Crowley whistled, a piercing sound that made Murron jump. The familiar propane hiss of Growley's presence filled the room as the large hellhound appeared at his master's side. Crowley snapped his fingers in Murron's direction, his eyes on the beast. Growley immediately went to Murron and positioned himself beside her. "He'll go with you and Victor for added security. If the witch gets shirty, he can take her down a peg or ten," Crowley said.

"Thanks," Murron replied, giving the hound a grateful scratch behind the ears. "I've been missing Growley." She licked her lips anxiously. "We should probably get going, then. I want this over and done with."

"Preaching to the demonic choir, love," Crowley replied with a crooked smile. "Victor knows where to go once you've got them on your tail. Be quick about it, though. If you give them any room to take you down, this whole things fails."

"No pressure, got it," Murron quipped. Crowley chuckled and approached her. When he bent his head towards hers, Murron accepted the kiss he pressed to her lips. She curled her fingers around the front of his suit jacket, gripping the notched lapels tightly. She knew this wouldn't be the last time she did this. She was far too determined to let it be. Still, she kissed him back as though it were, pouring all of her hopes for his survival into it.

Crowley gave her a brief wink when he pulled away, chucked her gently beneath the chin, and vanished. Murron pressed her lips together, savoring the sensation of his kiss, then looked down at Growley. He chuffed, as if to reassure her they'd be fine. Giving him another appreciative scratch behind the ear, the two went to Victor and together, they teleported away.

Victor stood in the middle of the open field they'd chosen for the first confrontation while Murron and Growley hung slightly back, ready to push in when the time was right. Fortunately, it wasn't long before a shadow passed over the waving grass, revealing the figures of Patience and her angel, Puriel.

Immediately, Patience was running for Victor, potentially thinking her daughter had been released from the demon's hold. But when Puriel put himself between the witch and the little girl, Patience realised her error and went on the defensive. Puriel made to snatch Victor when the demon blinked out of his grasp. This only enraged the angel, who whipped around and attempted to blast Victor with a holy bolt. In the next moment, Murron and Growley were flanking Victor.

Patience cried out to see Murron and sent out a wave of telekinetic energy. Invisible to the other witch, Growley bounded across the field and bit down on Patience's outstretched arm, dragging her to the ground. Murron ignored the panicked screams coming from the long grass and turned to Puriel. The angel, able to see the hellhound, moved to attack. Murron drew the angel blade from where it hung at her side and, sending a silent prayer to Kali, telekinetically launched the sword towards Puriel. It struck him in the upper arm, crippling his attack and causing him to cry out in pain and anger. Murron whistled for Growley, grabbed Victor's hand, and shouted, "_Now!_" just as Puriel made to grab at them. Murron felt him catch her sleeve just as the field disappeared from view.

In a tangle of confused limbs, Murron, Victor, Growley, and the piggybacking Puriel tumbled to the forest floor just beyond Baal's fortress. Crowley was upon Murron in an instant, lifting her to her feet and pulling her away from the flailing angel. The blade still pierced Puriel's arm; he seized the handle and tore it from his flesh, sending an arc of blood over the grass. He threw down the sword and roared like an angry beast in their direction.

"Oooo, Polly's angry! Good!" Crowley taunted. "Hold onto that anger, sweetheart, I'm gonna need it!"

"I'm glad you're okay with this," Murron muttered hastily behind him.

"But this is fun!" Crowley returned with a sharp laugh. He snapped his fingers; the grass at Puriel's feet caught fire, forcing the angel to leap out of the way. "C'mon! There's always more where that came from!" With Murron, Victor, and Growley clustered tight around him, the King of Hell carried them all to Baal's fortress, where the fallen angel undoubtedly awaited.

Just as the group touched down on the bridge, Puriel descended as well, the force of his impact causing the entire structure to shake violently. Murron gripped Crowley's arm for support just as Victor clutched at her side, screaming about wanting a bigger body. "Get inside!" Crowley barked, pivoting and making for the inner courtyard. Puriel thundered after them, howling his rage.

As they raced through the further crumbling ruins of the fortress, Puriel close at their heels, another figure appeared on the walkway above them. Crowley looked up, grinned, and called, "Back for more, Barbatos? Lucky for you I brought a friend! Sic 'em, boy!" Growley broke away from the group and leapt for the slim figure on the walkway. The two tumbled over the wall, snarling and clawing. Crowley turned next to Victor. "Smoke out and find a new body! There's plenty of corpses around still!"

"What about Angelica?" Murron cried.

"She's your problem!" Crowley replied.

"What?!"

"Handle it!"

Before Murron could respond, Victor exploded from the girl's body and sailed over the high wall in search of a new meat-suit. Immediately, the little girl regained her senses and, coughing, tried to fend off Murron's hands as she lifted the child and zigzagged away from Crowley. She skidded to a stop behind a pillar, Angelica struggling in her arms, and watched with wide eyes as Crowley disappeared into the castle proper, Puriel still tailing him. She didn't have time to think about his safety for Angelica continued to kick and bite at Murron's hold on her.

Murron pinned Angelica's arms down and quickly sought a place to put her. A nearby chamber revealed an opportunity and she hurried towards it. Just as she made to cross the threshold, another figure darkened the doorway. Murron drew to a clumsy halt and fell back, the impact jarring her enough to almost release the girl. The figure loomed above her and, reaching out a large hand, knocked Angelica from Murron's arms. He then gripped the front of Murron's shirt, hauling her upwards till she was well above him. "You're Crowley's whore, aren't you?" he sneered. "I'm going to enjoy this!"

Murron kicked out with all her strength at the man's face, putting an extra burst of telekinesis behind it as she did so. She hit her mark, but it only seemed to make the man laugh cruelly. Whatever she was dealing with, it wasn't human. "You must be one of Baal's party boys," she managed with a bravado she didn't entirely feel.

"Indeed. I am Astaroth and I'm going to enjoy killing you, whore," Astaroth returned, unfazed by the nickname. He drew his arm back sharply and hurled Murron from him with such force she heard the wind whistle in her ears. She crashed into a pile of stone, crying out when her back gave a loud cracking sound. Astaroth was upon her almost instantly, his leg whipping out to kick her across the courtyard. She spun out dizzily, feeling everything she'd ever eaten in her life fighting to come back up. She came to a shuddering halt near the gates, her breath knocked entirely out of her. She knew she had to fight back and soon or else she'd die then and there. Summoning every ounce of strength left to her, Murron created a wall of demon fire between her and the stampeding Astaroth. It gave her just enough time to scramble to her feet and make for the forest's border.

As she stumbled through the brambles, Murron heard Astaroth giving hot pursuit. She cried out in alarm as trees suddenly began exploding around her, sending thick shards of wood and dirt to impede her progress. She hopped over these obstacles as skillfully as her battered body allowed, searching valiantly for a clearing, anything where she could possibly build up a defensive position.

Murron permitted herself a sigh of relief when such a clearing presented itself just ahead. She glanced back over her shoulder quickly. Astaroth was nowhere to be found. She slowed, clutching her throbbing side, and finally stopped altogether to look about her in confusion. Had she outrun him? Impossible. Something could have distracted him; perhaps Victor had found another body and was taking him on now? Either scenario seemed more likely than his having given up on her.

A sharp blow to her back was her answer as Astaroth exploded from the thicket beside her. She flew back to the ground, her chin striking a protruding rock in the dirt. She tasted blood in her mouth and was certain she'd bitten straight through her tongue. Astaroth flipped her over violently and put his foot at her throat. Murron gripped his ankle in both hands, struggling against his inhuman strength futilely. What she needed was the angel blade, but Puriel had thrown it aside back at the cliff. No, what she really needed now was a miracle.

Suddenly, Astaroth reared up, mouth open in a silent scream as something pierced through his chest. Orange energy crackled from the wound and out of his open mouth and eyes. He tumbled to the ground, a lifeless husk. Murron looked up at her savior, a grateful smile curling her bruised lips. "Kali..." she whispered as the goddess bent over her and helped her sit up.

"I can't decide if you're brave or foolish, Murron Guthrie," Kali remarked, further assisting Murron to her feet and supporting her. Murron saw the goddess had Gabriel's blade in her hand. Good. She would've hated to have owned up to losing it. "Where is your demon king?" Kali asked next, bringing Murron back to the present.

"He's in the fortress, fighting Baal. I assume, anyway. He had me doing something else when he disappeared," Murron replied. "Puriel was after him, too. I have to get back there. He might need my help."

"A moment," Kali gently prevented Murron from taking another step. "Let me help you." The goddess passed a hand over Murron's battered face and down her body. In an instant, the pain vanished and she felt her wounds closing of their own accord. Kali had healed her.

"Will you stay and help us?" Murron asked. Kali shook her head.

"This is no longer my battle. It is between you and the King of Hell. I merely wanted my blade back."

"Thank you for lending it to me," Murron said with genuine gratitude. "With Crowley's plan to have the angels duke it out, I guess I don't need it anymore."

"I will take you back to the fortress," Kali said. "You're on your own from there."

Murron nodded as the goddess touched her shoulder and instantly transported them back to the stone bridge. Kali vanished before Murron could thank her again. It was just as well. The sounds coming from within the castle proper send chills up her spine. Whatever was happening, she knew she had to be in there. Clutching her fist, Murron raced through the courtyard and into the massive audience chamber.

The sight that met her eyes was like something out of a biblical epic.

Puriel, his wings manifested in all their shining glory, was locked in combat with what Murron could only assume was Baal. The fallen angel's wings were flesh as well, stark black to his brother's pearl white. Both held angel blades and when they brought them down upon the other, sparks flew and what sounded like heavy church bells echoed through the chamber. Murron searched the room for Crowley anxiously, drawing in a sharp breath to see him crouched in the corner of the chamber.

"Crowley!" she cried, vainly trying to be heard above the sounds of angelic combat. Knowing it was foolish to try, Murron cast caution into the wind and started for him. The path led her behind where Puriel and Baal clashed swords, but she didn't care. She'd just endured entirely too much to not be beside Crowley now. She broke into a frenzied run, dodging what she could of the white sparks that flew all around the angels.

Suddenly, a great flash of white-hot light pierced the space between Murron and Crowley. Murron felt herself being thrown back from the force, arms coming up to shield her face. Through the pulse of blood in her ears, she heard a single scream:

"_Murron!_"


	25. Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

Crowley darted through the open doorway into the audience chamber, the angry snarls of Puriel close behind him. He whipped about, snapped the fingers on both hands, and summoned a massive wall of flame between him and the angel. Puriel stopped just outside the chamber, giving Crowley enough time to move further into the room to lure Baal out.

"C'mon, Baal! I'm here for round three! I've got a present for you!" Crowley boomed, his voice bouncing off the charred walls of the room. "You don't want to miss this one, Polly! Trust me!"

The sudden collapse of the back wall was his answer. Baal descended into the chamber, majestic black wings spread as he touched down. Crowley dodged the bits of wall that sailed towards him, sidestepping to move further back away from the fallen angel. Behind the wall of fire, Puriel shrieked in his true voice, piercing the air like a siren. Baal responded in kind, his angel blade appearing in his hand. In the next second, Puriel pushed through the flames, his own blade glinting in his fist. The two stared each other down for an intense moment before beginning to slowly circle the other.

"Puriel," Baal growled. "Decided to come down and join the rest of us, have you?"

"Do not group me with your kind, Baal," Puriel returned coldly, his wings flowing from his back with sickening sounds as the bone, sinew, and muscle congealed from the ether. In a final explosion of blood and sound, feathers spread like scales across the tendons, as pure as snow and just as bright. These he fanned out threateningly, matching Baal's stance. "I have come to deliver Heaven's justice upon the wicked."

"Have you? What kept you? How is it you're not dead with the rest of them?" Baal challenged, darting forward. Puriel took a step back, his right wing swinging forward to shield him. "I had my reasons for remaining out of the Apocalypse; what was yours?"

"The Righteous Man and his poisoned brother," Puriel returned, lashing out with his left wing and catching Baal's right flank. "We didn't have to do anything so long as they were the only pawns on the board. They sent our brother back to the Pit where he belongs."

"And if I recall, our other brother fell with him," Baal taunted with a malicious grin, matching Puriel's opening tactic by stabbing the air with his own wings. "Now he dwells in the Pit. I have seen him."

"You will go there with him, Baal, for I will send you there!" Puriel leapt forward and brought his sword down. Baal deflected the blow with ease, the blades meeting and sending sparks into the air.

Meanwhile, Crowley observed the angelic battle carefully. It wouldn't do for him to sit back and watch forever. He had beef with them both. Puriel might be the one to weaken Baal, but Crowley wanted to be the one to take him out. He had one trick up his sleeve, but it would take everything out of him. He had to wait for just the right moment. He kept to the furthest corner of the chamber, crouched low so as not to attract their attention just yet.

Puriel and Baal continued to clash swords, the sound as deafening as the light from each strike was blinding. They moved up and down the length of the chamber, wings snapping at each other as blood and feathers flew. Baal's left leg was bleeding profusely from a wound Puriel had managed to inflict. Puriel's chest was crisscrossed with shallow gashes, the blood spoiling the purity of his garments. Neither appeared long for this world, though neither seemed ready to relent, either. This furious battle continued on for what felt like an eternity, broken only by the fleeting shadow that passed out the corner of Crowley's eye. He heard his name, almost too faint to detect above the clanging of angelic blades. Suddenly, he was aware of Murron barreling towards him just as Baal drove his blade deep into Puriel's chest.

Puriel's Grace exploded out of him in blinding light. The shockwave of it collided with Murron as she passed behind them, blowing her back. "_Murron!_" Crowley bellowed. Before he knew what was happening, he was on his feet, the trick he'd been saving up rolling through his body. He felt the extent of Hell's influence and power rumble through the ground, joining his demonic essence as he drew to a halt before Baal. Crowley's eyes flashed blood red, the black of the pupil suffocated by crimson as he lifted his hand to the ceiling. The fury of thousands of tormented souls thundered through him as he summoned all of the Hellfire he could muster. The flames erupted from him, blossoming from his body like a phoenix, the cries of the damned joining his as he directed this devastating blast at Baal. The living flame enveloped Baal, burning flesh and Grace from the fallen angel's bones. Baal screamed as he was burned away, leaving nothing but ash and his angel blade behind.

As the fire died away, Crowley was surprised to find he could still stand. He'd called to the souls of his domain and they'd heeded his request. Hell was finally his. All of the power that came with the title was now his to command. He'd fear no angel, man, or beast ever again. No one was left to usurp the throne. He truly was the King of Hell.

At the sound of Growley's howl from the courtyard, followed by Victor calling his name, Crowley's mind drew back to the present. He spun quickly, eyes searching the rubble for Murron's body. She lay sprawled facedown on the cobblestone floor. A small pool of blood was beneath her and for a moment, Crowley feared she might have died and added her own soul to the blast that had killed Baal. But as he neared her, she coughed violently and drew up from the ground onto her elbows.

"Son of a bitch!" Murron managed between spasming coughs. Crowley knelt beside her and gripped both her hands to haul her to her feet. She tumbled against him, her hair a sodden mess of dirt and blood. "Tell me it's over and I can home now!"

Crowley grinned. "Yeah, love, it's over. It's all over now."

"Good. It'll be too soon when I see another goddamn angel," she groused. Crowley felt her go limp as consciousness left her again. He lifted her up into his arms just as Victor and Growley joined him. Growley's muzzle was stained with blood, as were Victor's hands.

"Is Baal dead?" Victor asked quickly. Crowley nodded. "Puriel, too?" He looked down at Murron. "Is she dead?"

"No, not dead," Crowley replied. "Not yet," he added, too softly for Victor to hear. Growley gave a sharp whine and nudged his head against his master's leg. "Barbatos is dead, I take it?"

"Yeah."

"The girl?"

"We don't know."

"Doesn't matter," Crowley dismissed. "Let's go. I'm done with this place."

Leaving Murron with Victor and Growley, Crowley returned to Hell. None of its denizens bothered him as he made his way back to the Cage where Michael and Lucifer continued to hover over that single human soul.

Michael lowered his massive head to look Crowley in the face when the demon king approached. "What do you want?"

"I've got news, boys," Crowley began, a note of smug triumph in his voice. "Your brothers, Baal and Puriel? Dead. Hell? Mine." He looked up at Lucifer. "And you thought I couldn't do it. I remember. Only unlike you, I won't be an absentee ruler. No, when people come looking for the King of Hell, they won't have to break any seals to do it. No, I'll be there, waiting for them. I've secured my own dynasty, boys. Me. And none of your annoying feathered kind will ever get in my way again. You'll stay down here in the Pit, together, all the while knowing there's a demon sitting on the throne. A demon controlling Hell, as it should be."

"You forget one important thing, demon," Lucifer remarked quietly. Crowley narrowed his eyes, waiting. "You forget about Man. Man will always find a way to destroy you and your kind. It was Man who did this to me and my brother; what makes you think they couldn't do the same to you? No, Crowley, your arrogance will not save you forever. One day, you will have to rely on Man again to keep your throne. Trust that His favorites will always stand in your way."

"Maybe, but they won't be standing for long," Crowley swore through bared teeth. "I won't give in without a helluva fight, you mark me."

With that, the King of Hell turned away from the angels, every step joining Hell's power with his. He moved though the Circles, feeling the souls trapped within them bowing as he passed. When he emerged back onto Earth, he blinked out.

There was one last bit of business he had to tend to before he could return to the cottage, and to Murron.

The witch called Prudence cowered in the corner of her bedroom, a silver knife clutched in her shaking hands. The low baying outside continued, eerie and close. Had it really been ten years? It seemed like only yesterday that she'd made that deal with the crossroads demon. He'd been so charming, so persuasive! He'd soothed her, assured her her desires to be powerful were perfectly normal. He'd found her her coven, her sisters, swearing they would make her strong. But he'd had one stipulation: she would someday do a favor for him. Blinded by the prospect of absolute power, Prudence had agreed. Little did she know it would eventually involve her sisters.

The howling drew closer. Prudence tightened her hold on the silver knife and began to pray. When no answer came to her, she began to sob wildly. Puriel had abandoned her. He'd never liked her, even in the beginning, even after she'd killed all those demons. Nothing she did seemed to please him. She wanted so much to be loved and blessed by him, the way he blessed Patience and Angelica. Not even Faith and Grace were blessed, but they were looked upon with kindness, unlike her. Now she was totally alone, left to atone for her sins. She'd foolishly compromised her soul and now he'd come to claim his prize.

The gentle creak of the front door opening, followed by the scuffle of animal claws on the floorboards silenced Prudence's sobs. She held her breath as the bedroom door opened slowly and a long shadow passed over the carpet. "Prudence," came a singsong voice, the syllables deceptively sweet due to the owner's purring accent. "Come out, come out, wherever you are."

Prudence swallowed hard. The demon passed into the room, his black-clad form coming into view. He was just as she'd remembered: handsome with seductive green eyes and an incredibly powerful aura. He'd drawn her in then; he threatened to draw her out now.

"Come now, darling, you knew this day would come eventually," he crooned, sliding open the closet door with a careless gesture. "Come on, Prudence. You didn't deny me then."

Prudence shivered. How she hated to be reminded of that! It had been a moment of weakness, incredible weakness. He'd been so accepting of her and had given her such pleasure. Even now the memory of his hot touch threatened to give her away. She drew further back into the corner, a small moan escaping her.

Immediately, the demon was upon her, his body blocking any possible escape. He tsk'd at her gently and took the silver knife from her. He tossed it over his shoulder, gripped both her hands, and coaxed her out of the corner. She tried to pull away, to dig her heels in, but it was no use. He was too strong. He drew her out into the center of the bedroom and released her hands. She hugged herself as he began to circle her slowly, his voice low.

"When I told you to deceive your sisters, I did not say you could capture her," he intoned. "I did not say you could attempt to torture her. I did not say you could tell your sisters where she was or that she would be coming." He paused and pivoted to look back at Prudence. "You defied me at every turn," he snarled, suddenly furious. "You never, ever turn your back on a business deal, _ever_. You do not target what is mine, do you understand?" His words ended in a fierce growl. Prudence cried out and fell to her knees before him. She gripped the edge of his coat in both hands, bowing her face against it as she sobbed.

"Please! Don't! I didn't mean it! Honest! I was tricked by them! They threatened to kill me if I didn't tell them! I've been loyal to you, my king, I swear!" He jerked his coat from her hands, the action knocking her to the floor. She continued to sob madly into the carpet, begging for his mercy. A low whistle was the response, followed by a hot gust of foul breath on her neck. She managed to get out a single gasp before the hellhound's jaws closed on her, silencing her forever.

Crowley stared down at Murron. She'd been sleeping since they'd returned from Baal's fortress, no doubt too exhausted to do much else. He had to admit that he was proud of her. She'd survived just fine. Victor had witnessed her facing off against Astaroth and had praised her bravery. How she managed to kill the demon remained a mystery, not that it mattered.

He sat down beside her gingerly, smiling when she stirred in her sleep and bent closer to him as if she knew he was there. It was strange. He'd known many women, intimately or otherwise, but this one? This unlikely scrap of a thing had managed to leave a greater impression. A lot of people sold him their souls. But not a one of them had bothered to turn their lives, and potentially their moral views, upside down to ensure his safety. He'd found her at a vulnerable time in his long existance and had viewed it as convenient. It wasn't until she began to demonstrate her worth that he realised he'd fallen into the safest place he could've ever found. She never asked him to be anything other than what he was. She never insisted he tell her everything. She called him a friend. The word often put a bad taste in his mouth, but somehow, when she said it, he believed it. When he said 'Trust me', she did. He'd called her stupid in his mind multiple times. No one should ever trust a demon, especially not a demon like him. If it had suited his purpose, he would have cast her aside or thrown her to his enemies, but he hadn't. It was a complicated, emotional mess that he would rather avoid, but now, almost a full year later from that summer night at the crossroads, it was as normal as the feel of his own being. He couldn't say he loved her, not in the way she wanted to hear it. Love wasn't a word demons used lightly, if at all.

Still, these thoughts didn't seem to matter as he sat there, his eyes traveling over her sleeping face. Whatever emotion she stirred in him, be it some bastardization of love or a twisted sense of ownership, he allowed himself to feel it. He leaned in close to her ear and whispered her name. Her eyes opened half-way and she looked up at him as though he were a dream. She reached out for him sleepily, sighing when he took her hand and held it between his.

"Murron," he began softly. The words caught in his throat and he swallowed hard. She'd already fallen back asleep, her warm hand trapped between his palms. "If I could say it, the way you need to hear it," he continued, the words barely being given full breath, "I'd be lying." He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed her knuckles against them, his eyes closing.

_I'd be lying..._


	26. Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five 

Over the course of the next few days, Murron remained in bed as any time she tried to move further than the bathroom, her body protested. Victor lingered in the house with her and Crowley, acting as both company and potential warning system should anyone try and catch them unawares. Murron enjoyed the other demon's presence as, in their short association, she'd come to trust him almost as much as she did Crowley. He seemed very aware of the relationship she shared with Crowley, respecting their time alone and not once making a nuisance of himself. Much of the time, he remained downstairs or in the cellar, only making his presence known when either ordered to or when he asked after Murron's recovery.

To her extreme pleasure, Crowley had taken to sharing her bed, even going so far as to sleep when she did. He never vocalized his reasons for doing so, not that he needed to. She had a dim memory of him sitting beside her after the battle. He'd said something to her, but that alone remained a mystery. Instead of questioning it, she savored his presence beside her every night, to feel the weight of his arm at her waist as they slept. He often let her rest alone during the day, only coming up when he was finished with whatever kept him away.

One evening, Crowley came into the bedroom, his coat slung over one arm and set to stripping himself of his tie and suit jacket. Murron, who'd been resting with her eyes closed, opened them and smiled to see him. As if feeling her eyes on him, Crowley turned and returned the smile. "Hello, love. Did I wake you?"

"No," Murron assured him, touched that he would ask. "I wouldn't want to sleep through this, anyway." She giggled. Crowley grinned.

"You must be feeling better if you're making passes at me," he quipped, pulling off his jacket and hanging it up on the back of the door. Murron made an assertive noise. He resumed undressing, pausing between each article of clothing to either hang it up or fold it and put it aside. It was all so charmingly domestic. When he'd frowned at the open top drawer of the dresser, Murron cleared her throat. She held up the pair of silk pants he wore to bed.

"You forgot to put them away last night," she said and held them out to him. "Unless," she added, pulling them away when he made to fetch them. "You'd rather not bother with them at all?"

"Cheeky miss tonight, I see!" Crowley remarked appreciatively. "I can work with that." He stripped off his black silk boxers and, naked, strode over to the bed where Murron was carefully pulling her own sleep clothes off. "Hang on," Crowley sat beside her to help draw her top off as such movements still hurt her. "There. How're you healing up?"

"I don't know. You tell me," Murron twisted as best she could, turning her back to him. He slid a gentle hand down her back, murmuring observations she couldn't make out. "Still pretty bad, I take it?"

"No, not really. Still have some scrapes and bruises, but otherwise, I think you're doing well," Crowley replied. "Which is a good thing because I have an idea you might be interested in."

Murron leaned back against the pillows, head cocked in curiousity. "What is it?"

"Well," Crowley climbed over her to take his place beside her, lifting an arm to invite her to snuggle up to him. Murron did so gratefully, wrapping her arms about his middle. "I thought you might like a little vacation. With me."

"A vacation? Seriously?" Murron asked, surprised. At his nod, she chuckled. "Can you take the time away from Hell to do that?"

"I can do whatever I bloody well please. I'm the King," Crowley replied loftily. "I just figured you'd rather spend your last month having a good time, not watching the calendar."

At that, Murron sobered. She hadn't been thinking about that. In truth, she didn't like to think about it. A month was so short, so dreadfully short. She pressed against him further, not wanting to think about never being able to do this again. Then, as if realising his mistake, Crowley brought both his arms about to hold her and bent his face into her hair. He murmured an apology that sounded awkward on his tongue. Murron shook her head. She didn't want him to apologise for something she'd gotten herself into. She kissed a small path across his collarbone, then lifted her face to him. Crowley accepted her upturned mouth, kissing her firmly. She breathed the heat of him in, wondering if she was well enough to have him take her. Her body was certainly responding to him and she could feel he was equally responsive to her.

Crowley broke the kiss and whispered huskily, "Come here." He pulled her into his lap, his lips finding her throat as she gingerly took him into her. He held her as tightly as her bruised back would allow. Murron curled her arms around his neck, doing her best not to push herself too hard. He seemed just as keen on keeping it slow and easy. It seemed more about the contact than the need for sexual release, which suited Murron fine. It had never been about the carnal lust, at least not on her end of things. No, she simply enjoyed the absolute closeness of him, the feel of his skin on hers and the full sensation of him inside her.

They remained connected like that for many moments more, foreheads touching and eyes closed to fully appreciate the experience. When they'd reached a quiet climax, Crowley kept her in his lap, his face bowed to the hollow between her neck and shoulder. Murron stroked the back of his head, enjoying the softness of his hair through her fingers. Would he miss this, she wondered? Would he ever look back on this year, centuries from now, and remember her? She smiled sadly to herself. He was an eternal thing, something meant for forever, and she was this fleeting moment in time, barely a blip in the universe. But for this moment, this precise moment, she was his and part of her believed he was hers, even if only in the smallest capacity.

"Crowley," she began in a soft whisper. He murmured something unintelligble against her skin. "Can I...is it all right if I say it?"

He was silent for awhile and for a moment, she wondered if he'd fallen asleep. Then she felt his lips flex as if to speak, ending in a kind of grunting sigh. "If you want to," was his final answer. He sounded as though he dreaded the words, not out of any annoyance, but almost as a kind of...regret?

"No. Nevermind," Murron sighed, gathering him to her a bit more and kissing the top of his head. "It doesn't matter."

Silence spread between them once more. Murron relaxed in his arms, her cheek propped on his head. After a moment, she felt his arms loosen around her and a low snore vibrated along her chest. She bit her lip on the giggle that threatened to wake him and carefully untangled herself from him. Crowley, only partially aware it seemed, fumbled about getting comfortable, and was out again in a matter of seconds. Murron watched him sleep for awhile, content to simply drink him in.

When her own exhaustion began to creep up on her, Murron nestled down behind him, hugged him with one arm about his waist, and kissed the space between his shoulder blades. She felt him loosely grip her dangling hand and push further back into her. She smiled, amused to be the big spoon for once, and closed her eyes as sweet sleep washed over her.

The vacation Crowley had in mind ended up being a private island he'd acquired through an old demon deal, its owner now long gone. It was isolated with its own lagoon and a thick forest covered at least half of it. The house they would stay in was an old design that Murron couldn't identify, not that it mattered. It was beautiful and exactly what she needed after the ordeal with Puriel and the witches.

Being that she was still smarting from the blow she'd endured, Murron favored sitting on the white sandy beach enjoying the balmy breezes that drifted off the pristine water. If she'd known about this place before, she would have insisted on spending their year there. It was the perfect slice of paradise; such a pity she'd only have a month to enjoy it. Still, she fought to keep her spirits high, feeling it would be foolish to pretend she hadn't known it was coming.

One morning, Murron left the house to find Crowley standing on the beach. His jacket had been cast aside on the sand, as had his tie. He stood facing the horizon, one hand shielding his face from the rising sun. The cuffs of his dress shirt were open, as well as his collar, and both flapped in the wind against his wrists and neck. He appeared to be looking for something, which prompted Murron to join him.

He turned partially when she neared, one eye closed against the light, and smiled. "Morning, love. Sleep well?"

"Of course. You know I did," Murron replied, linking her arm in his and resting her head on his shoulder. "You've taken it upon yourself to exhaust me every night."

"No greater sacrifice in the world," Crowley quipped. He lowered his hand from his face and sighed thoughtfully. "I'd forgotten how apart from everything this island was. Not sure what to make of it."

"You'd rather be in the thick of it again?"

"If I had to be honest, yes, actually. Relaxation now seems impossible. I keep thinking about what's left to do with Hell," he confessed. "But nevermind. If I get restless, I can always pop down and see what's what."

"I didn't expect you to sit on the beach and drink pina coladas, anyway," Murron smiled, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. "This is more for me, I think. I'll happily get hammered every night while you flitter about down below."

"Hammered? Don't you mean pounded?" Crowley grinned, unable to help himself. Murron laughed.

"Careful there, Casanova," she returned. "You might turn my head."

"Among other things."

"I suppose when you're not doing whatever it is the ruler of Hell does, we could always while away the days making love on the beach," Murron suggested lightly. "Though I'm told sex on the beach is very uncomfortable."

Crowley laughed, genuinely amused by that. "Perfectly good bed in the house; why get sand in everything if we don't have to?"

"Pretty much." Murron replied. "Though a month here does seem awfully long, don't you think?"

"It'll go by quickly. I wouldn't be so eager to burn through it," Crowley advised quietly. Murron nodded. He straightened the arm she was holding, sliding his hand down hers until their fingers clasped. "Hard to believe, really," he began after a moment's silence.

"What is?"

"You. Me," he added with some hesitation. "I'm not the best at this." He lifted their joined hands for emphasis. "Not my thing, really. I should hate you for it, but...I guess I don't. There. That's the closest you'll get to anything."

Murron smiled. "I take what I can get with you, Crowley. But thank you. That was sweet."

"Go on, then!" Crowley waved his free hand at her, averting his face. She laughed. "If you ask me, you're the idiot in this. Who the hell loves a demon, anyway?"

"I do, I guess," Murron shrugged.

"Still stupid." Despite his words, his tone was forgiving, even kind.

"I'm okay with that."

They stood watching the waves for awhile longer, then Crowley turned to Murron, a curious look on his face. "Why did you want me? Really. The truth this time."

"The whole truth?" Murron prompted. He nodded. "Idealism. In the beginning, anyway. You were made out to be this cautionary tale, but I guess I never stopped loving the idea of an unconventional relationship."

"Was that your goal?"

"I wouldn't call it a goal so much as a wish. I knew it was wrong, though, to try and hold a demon to anything as fragile and temporary as a relationship, of any nature. No, the longer I was around you, the less I wanted to try and chain you to me. That's why I didn't accept your offer that night. It wasn't pride, as I suspect you thought it was. It was probably the first time I realised how I really felt. About you, about the deal, everything. I refused because I loved you."

Crowley fell silent, as if taking it in. "Well, I suppose you're not the first," he replied quietly. Murron regarded him from beneath drawn brows. "I dabbled in that once. Long time ago. Centuries, even. Had a kid, too, if you can believe it."

"You're a father?"

"Was a father. And not a very good one at that. Wasn't even really mine. I needed a body. He was there. End of story."

"There's probably more to it, but I know better than to ask."

"Smart girl."

It was Murron's turn to be pensive. She was remembering what Kali had said, how if she, Murron, really wanted to know everything about Crowley, she'd only have to demand it and he'd tell her. The goddess might've been simplfying things, of course. It would be easy for someone like Kali to demand the truth and nothing but the truth, but Murron? She was curious, but not enough to risk Crowley putting up another wall between them. Where they were now was right where she wanted to be.

"I don't want it to happen here," she declared suddenly. Crowley didn't have to ask for clarification. "It's beautiful here, don't get me wrong, but I'd rather be in a more familiar place."

"Whenever you're ready to go back," Crowley replied. "Until then, enjoy yourself."

"I'm trying. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared, even a little. How does it usually happen?"

Crowley glanced at her sidelong, eyelids lowering to conceal the message within his gaze. "Don't worry about it right now."

"But I am worrying about it right now," Murron pressed. "Please. I want to know. I think I have the right to ask how I'll die."

He lifted his head, the wind catching his hair and fanning it across his forehead. "At the end of their deals, people begin to see and hear things. Then the hellhounds come. The person is then torn apart and their soul is dragged to Hell where they will most likely be tortured or worse. Or the line, like I told you about."

"You're using 'they' as if it won't happen to me like that," Murron observed. Crowley looked away again. "I'll see and hear the same things everyone else does. I'll be dragged away by hellhounds. Say it."

"You'll hear and see things, yes," Crowley conceded finally, the words coming fast.

"And the hellhounds?" Murron continued, studying what little of his face she could see intently. When he didn't respond, she frowned slightly. "Will it be Growley? Is that how it works? The demon's hound is the one to come and collect?"

"Yes."

"I see."

"Murron -"

"It's fine. Just kind of makes the whole handbasket thing obsolete, doesn't it?" Murron gave a weak laugh. "I signed up for this. I don't want special treatment. It wouldn't be fair."

"Damn what's fair!" Crowley growled. He turned to her sharply, their hands separating. "If you want to go down in a bloody handbasket, I can do that. You've already been given 'special treatment', don't you see that?"

"Even so, Crowley, I sold my soul to you. I'm going to Hell. There's no way around that. I've been coming to terms with it the same way I did when I was told I had cancer. This is just how it works." Murron stared at Crowley with sad eyes.

"Bugger how it works!" he insisted. "I'm the King of Hell! If I want you to go one way, it's going to happen!"

"I don't know what you want me to say to this," Murron replied quietly, taken aback by his passion.

"Ask for something better, damn you! You give into one thing, but ignore the benefits! Bloody daft woman!"

Murron was at a loss. "All right," she said after a moment. "I'll ask for something better when the time comes. Until then, I'd rather we didn't stand here in the blazing hot sun arguing over how I'm going to be dragged to Hell. I guess I didn't realise it'd upset you this much."

"I'm not upset," Crowley insisted. "I just don't understand you sometimes."

"No more than I understand you," Murron rejoined calmly. "But that doesn't matter. I accept you."

"Don't start that again!" Crowley dismissed it with a sharp jerk of his hand. "I can't handle all of this drippy altruism! Go swimming or something. I have to go back to Hell."

"You're storming off?" Murron asked, amused. He grunted. "Crowley."

"What?"

She went up to him, took his face in her hands, and kissed him softly. His expression, while still grim, relaxed when she pulled away. She searched his face, her heart in her eyes. "Don't go away angry. Don't go away at all. This is me asking - no. This is me _demanding _that you stay here with me until I die. You said it yourself: Hell can wait. I can't."

"No more selfless rubbish?" Crowley prompted. She shook her head. "Fine. It's about time."

"You're just that kind of influence, I guess," Murron smiled, encircling his neck with her arms and pressing her cheek to his. She held him close, murmuring pleasantly when he returned the embrace. She brushed her lips against his ear. "Take me to bed. I never realised how attractive you are when you're angry."

"Cheek will you get you nowhere, love," Crowley teased, his anger lessening as a grin spread across his face. "But if you insist." He snapped his fingers and they disappeared from the heat of the sun to the cool confines of the darkened bedroom.


	27. Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty-Six

The month wore on, the days passing not in the typical dragging of the feet way, but rapidly, creating a blur in Crowley's memory as he watched the woman who'd invoked a change in him look towards her death with surprising clarity and peace. He'd never admit it out loud, but whenever he would reflect on the past year, a knot would form in his stomach, twisting that self-assured, independent drive that had kept him alive for so long. He couldn't afford attachments. He didn't want them. Deals were easy: he only had to give his word then. Everything else was up to the client. He was free to keep the walls up and remain detached.

That balmy summer evening in the middle of nowhere, he could recall it perfectly. He'd been idling away at home when the sense someone was making a deal came to him. At first he'd done nothing, preferring to stay out of so small an investment. Let someone else handle it, it had nothing to do with him. Just a sick woman barefoot in the dirt, searching the darkness for the thing that could change her fate. Even when he'd noticed the vial of amber liquid, he'd chosen to remain still. He wasn't so easily caught.

Then he felt her intentions, his curiousity piquing as he turned his senses towards her. Those secret shameful thoughts she believed to be so well-hidden were plain as day to him. Idealism. He so loved the simplicity of humanity, especially when it came to thrashing their illusions about his kind. The decision to go to her had been a cruel one. She was a pitifully small fish, barely worth the minimal effort to extract the Craig and make his dramatic appearance. But she was taking a chance and he couldn't help but admire her gumption. She clearly wanted him and no one else. This appealed to his ego, despite being almost certain her deal would be the usual rubbish about curing her. But when she'd voiced her true deal, that's when his interest really escalated. He'd been in a tricky situation prior to the deal - Lucifer's followers had already deduced he'd given the Colt to the Winchesters and were hot on his trail. This tiny slip of a woman was giving him a perfect out. He couldn't resist.

It had been strange, and somewhat pathetic, at first. Upon arriving in her quaint, if not dismally decorated, cottage, he'd wondered for a moment if he'd made a mistake. He couldn't say precisely what held his fascination with her; it certainly wasn't her crippled hospitality. But she was giving him a strange kind of sanctuary, an unlikely place in which to hide out and wait for the whole thing to blow over. And when he'd returned home to find his house in flames, his servants dead, and had been ambushed by Lucifer's cronies, he felt a brief moment of gratitude for the sad little girl who'd aimed for a king.

That same sad little girl proved to be a force on her own. She secured his preservation with her mystical scribblings, her iron will to protect him despite being a novice in her craft and one who was practically on her deathbed already. He'd granted her her health in return for her assistance. He granted her small favors to demonstrate his unspoken gratitude. She never questioned him, never demanded the whys or the hows, and never once tried to insist he do things other ways. She was moralistic, to be sure, but not to where she tried to change him to suit herself. For one so often looked down upon or outright mistrusted for being what he was, this level of perfect acceptance had thrown him off his game for a time. She gave him reasons to stay. And when the Apocalypse was over, and she'd stared up at him with those sad brown eyes, he knew he'd made a greater investment than originally intended: Crowley, the King of the Crossroads, inheritor to the throne of Hell, had grown attached.

How much he wanted to hate her for it. How he longed to accuse her of trickery, even though such a thing was impossible to one as old as he. He wanted to see fear in her eyes, not adoration or quiet acceptance. He wanted to remind her he was a demon, a threat to anything human. But even when she saw him kill, even when he taught her to kill, she continued to accept him for what he was. She continued to sacrifice her own comforts in order to keep him alive. She remained stalwart, destroying her own home so that he might escape with his preferred vessel, never once doubting he would take her with him. She never doubted him. She trusted him with her entire being. She had no regrets. Stupid, foolish, _beautiful _Murron Guthrie, the witch who dared love a demon king.

Yes, he'd grown attached. But he'd sooner swallow holy water than call it for what it truly was. That word, those words, would never cross his lips. It was the ultimate weakness and he'd already been weakened enough by her brilliant influence.

Yet, why then, did that knot continue to twist inside him, to think of his life - that long-lived thing - without her? He owned her in every way a person could be owned, but even then it didn't feel like enough. Her soul would be lost to him after she died, tossed among the others already occupying Hell. He couldn't have that. He wouldn't have that. He was the King of Hell and he would do as he pleased with the souls granted him.

But it wasn't the thought of possession that occupied his mind when she slept beside him, quiet and peaceful and wholly unaware of the thoughts in his head. How small she was in her sleep, delicate and pale, her breath kissing his skin where her head lay on his chest. He wound his fingers in her curling copper hair, letting the strands slide through in silken waves. She always smelled of ripe pomegranates, which struck him as ironic considering his role as Hell's monarch. A modern Persephone to his mad Hades. Only instead of having to steal her away from the earth, she'd leapt willingly into the gaping maw of the Pit, possessed of zero regrets.

He watched as the madness of all Hellbound souls began to take hold of her. How she would turn her head to listen for things that weren't there or how she'd start at the visions she'd catch out the corner of her eye. She moved through the house with great trepidation, as though every turned corner would present a new horror. He couldn't erase these nightmares: they came from inside her. All her grief, all of her regrets, and would've, could've scenarios were now being played out before her by the second, never once giving her a moment's peace.

At night she was restless, the sounds and sights preventing her from sleeping. He knew it was only a matter of time before she looked at him and saw him for what he truly was. He wanted to save her from that, but it was impossible to completely predict when it would happen. She could wake up one morning, turn to him, and be greeted by a monster instead. She might scream, might throw herself from him. He couldn't be sure.

It was late at night the day before she was due to die that it happened. He'd been laying beside her as always, as she stirred in his arms like a child plagued by night terrors. She'd started awake with a sharp cry and had lifted her face to him for his comforting kiss. The scream that tore through her took him quite aback, for even when she'd been facing demons and psychotic witches he'd never heard her sound so terrified.

She fell from the bed, still screaming as he drew near her, his hands outstretched to try and cover her eyes. _Don't look at me, Murron. Don't look! _He bade she listen to his voice, to focus on that, to know that it was him and not some horrible apparition. Even as she continued to struggle against him, he pulled her into his arms and held her as securely as her wriggling body would allow. _Just listen to my voice, darling! _

Eventually, she calmed and was able to look at him again. Tears spilled from her eyes as she pleaded for him to make it stop, to take the madness away. He knew of no way to do that, but kept that to himself. She held onto him tightly, her damp face pressed to his shoulder as she sobbed. He let her cry, hating the impotentence at being unable to do anything for her. He wasn't used to being powerless. He was the King of Hell; why couldn't he erase her illusions? Wasn't it his influence that had caused them? Even if that were the case, all Hellbound souls' madness came from within, from their own tortured thoughts. He knew this, knew it as well as he knew himself, yet it still rankled him to be so useless.

There was one thing he could do to ease her fears, however, and, despite it being the least thing that should be on his mind, he lifted her from the floor and returned to the bed.

Through her steadying weakening sobs, she accepted his kiss with a mumured whimper and gripped his face between her shaking hands. He stretched out above her, allowing the weight and warmth of him to further calm her. He cradled the back of her head in one hand while the other slid from her throat to between her breasts. They'd taken to sleeping naked since returning from the island, making his progress down her body easier. She broke the kiss as his questing fingers slipped over the crest of her inner thigh, a shuddering moan passing through her. He kissed down her neck and over her collarbone as he sought the source of her heat. She rose up against him, her arms coming to encircle his neck and pressed her chest to his, the softness of her breasts triggering his further arousal. The ache that mounted, the driving need to be inside her, to possess her again, rose with a near violence within him, and with great restraint, resisted, to focus on her needs first.

His fingers entered her gently, teasing the most sensitive parts of her until she opened her legs further to him. His free hand left her head, fingertips grazing over her heaving breasts as he moved further down her body with his lips. His fingers left her as he replaced them with the slick heat of his tongue, causing her arch dramatically from the bed. He lingered there, committing the taste and softness of her to memory, knowing this would be the last time he could experience her like this. And, as if needing to feel her in other ways, he sought her hand. Catching it, he linked their fingers together tightly, enjoying the desperate grasp on her end whenever he hit just the right spot.

At the sound of his name, spoken in a ragged whisper thick with urgency, he left the warm shelter of her thighs and drew up above her again. Heavy-lidded eyes, glossy with a mixture of tears and need, gazed into his as she took his face between her hands again. At the same moment their lips met, he entered her, burying himself in her as deep as he could. Her thighs cradled his hips as he moved within her with gentle, slow thrusts, lips bruising hers with the passion he put behind his kiss. She clung to him, fingers moving through his hair, moaning into his mouth and her thighs crushing him between them.

Lust normally drove their intimacy, at least on his end, but tonight, he wanted to remember her. He wanted to recall this warmth, this maddening desperation to be close to her, long after she'd gone. He would drive away all of the fear in her mind with his kisses and his body. He would further imprint himself upon her heart with the words his actions spoke in ways his voice could not.

He coiled his fingers into her hair, gripping her head as he continued to ravage her lips with his, savoring the feel of her tongue as it slid across his in swift, wet strokes. As deep as he was inside her, it still didn't seem to be enough. He released her head, curled his arms beneath her shoulders and held her as tightly to him as possible. She embraced him with everything she had, her arms, her legs, and from within. The same need to be close drove her as it drove him and they rocked together, every available part of their bodies touching, making them genuinely one.

In less than twenty-four hours she was going to die. Her soul would be torn from her body, her heart would stop forever, and the light would fade from her eyes. Never again would she look at him with the brilliance of her heart in her gaze, never laugh or blush when he teased her, never lay naked and warm and alive and in love with him enough to turn her world upside down just for him. Soon, she would be a faceless, disembodied cloud of energy, as white and shining as diamonds. And completely unable to touch him or hold him or kiss him or whisper to him in the dark when she thought he couldn't hear her.

_I'm not letting you go tonight._ _You'll die, my brave girl, but you will not die alone. Ask me, ask me to do it. I won't let you die in pain. Ask me, ask me, ask me!_

Somewhere in the midst of their union, her voice sounded in his ear, pleading for him to never leave her, to always be with her. He gripped her tighter in response, still unable to give breath to the words he knew she needed to hear. The knot tightened inside him. Then he heard it: she wished for him to be the one to take her life, to lay absolute claim to her soul. He sighed against her neck, the scent of her filling his senses as he released himself into her. In the afterglow, they remained entwined, neither quite ready to let the other go. They moved as one to shift onto their sides, foreheads pressed together, chests heaving as they regained their breath. She sought his lips in the darkness, whimpering against them as she kissed him repeatedly, murmuring her love into his mouth. He took these words in and held them on his tongue, as if the taste of them might give voice to his own admission. When they did not, he released those charged words into the air with a heavy sigh.

They lay in the blossoming dawn, arms and legs coiled together, lips touching every now and again. He wanted her to sleep, to find peace in the limpid darkness of her mind. Only asleep could she continue to avoid the nightmares that waited for her upon waking. But should she wake screaming, he would touch her again, and again, until the very end. He would smother those terrible visions in any way he could. He felt so alien, thinking this way about someone other than himself, but in truth, it was no less than what she'd given him over the course of their unusual relationship.

She slept in his arms for the remainder of the day, sometimes opening her eyes when a voice sounded in her ears again and he would whisper to her and stroke her cheek, promising it would be over soon. When she would fall asleep once more, he reflected how this was very much like consoling someone who'd lost their mind. In many ways, that's precisely what was happening. As the madness continued to grip her, she would remain wide-eyed and scared until it came time to complete the contract.

Soon, all too soon, he heard the clock in the living room chime its twelve strokes. He closed his eyes against the sound even as she drew up in response to them. The distant baying of hellhounds joined the clock and he felt her shiver. She turned back to him, face stark white in the blue light of the moon. He rose up and pulled her back into his arms, settling her still in his lap. She wrapped herself around him in silence, resting her cheek against his. Over her shoulder, he spied his hound waiting, blue flame head lowered as if in mourning for the woman he'd come to view as a companion. Together, they would escort her soul to Hell. He just had to take it.

He parted from her enough to look into her eyes, mutely asking if she was ready. Clarity entered her gaze as she smiled warmly at him. She drew her hand down his cheek and he turned into the touch, kissing her palm. _My brave girl...hold fast to me. Don't let go. _

She fell against him again, whispering her love into his ear as he lifted one hand behind her, his eyes closing as his fingers curled into a fist. She jerked violently in his arms once and went still. Her arms slipped from his shoulders, going limp at her sides. Her body grew heavy in his lap and he bent his head to the space between her neck and shoulder, fist uncurling to press against her back.

_Goodbye, my darling._


	28. Epilogue

Epilogue

Crowley stood outside the cottage, hands in his trouser pockets as the wind carried the black smoke curling and fanning out into the twilight. Growley sat beside him, head thrown back in a baleful howl.

It had been Crowley's decision to burn the house. Upstairs, lain out on the bed in a replica of the summer dress she'd met him in, Murron's body burned along with it. Her soul was safely in Hell, secreted away apart from the rest. He knew she wouldn't have wanted to become a demon and he didn't want to lose her to the masses. The funeral pyre served two purposes: a send-off and to ensure she could never return to earth.

By dawn, the fire died down, leaving ash and the brick fireplace in its wake. Crowley made to turn away from the scene when the familiar scent of incense passed over him. Turning, he spied the goddess, Kali, clad in what he perceived as ceremonial robes, staring into the smouldering remains. She looked back at Crowley, her dark eyes solemn. They exchanged a look in silence for a few moments, then Crowley lowered his gaze and blinked from sight.

In the pink and gold light of the sunrise, Kali stepped out onto the ash and, raising her arms to the sky, began to dance.

- The End


	29. Bonus

Murron left the beachouse when the scent of firewood drew her out onto the sand. A little ways from the shore, Crowley sat crouched before an impressive bonfire. He turned when Murron drew near and smiled up at her. "What's this?" she asked, taking a moment to admire the snapping flames. Crowley rose from the sand, brushed his knees free of the white grit, and took her hand.

"I'm told it's romantic to dance on the beach at sunset, especially when there's a fire going," he declared, pulling her, laughing, into his embrace. She linked her fingers with his, her other hand settling on his shoulder as his positioned itself on her waist. Slowly, he guided her in a kind of lazy waltz. They circled the space in front of the bonfire, their eyes never leaving the other's face.

The firelight danced across Crowley's features, illuminating his green eyes to a muted orange. Murron felt her heart swell with love for him and she released his hand to coil her arms around his neck. Their foreheads met as Crowley's hands cradled her waist, swinging her steadily throughout the waltz's timed steps. The warmth from the fire combined with the heat from the sand and the comforting closeness of him drew Murron into a sleepy lull and she closed her eyes gratefully.

It was still some time before her year was over. She wasn't sure what to expect when the time came, but so long as Crowley was beside her, she felt she could face anything. Her head shifted to rest on his shoulder, sighing happily when he pressed his cheek to hers. "Let me stay like this forever," she whispered.

"It could, if you really wanted it to," Crowley replied softly. "It's in my power. You need only ask."

"You know I can't," Murron reminded him, sadness entering her voice. Sometimes she hated her overbearing sense of fairness. She wanted to be selfish, wanted to stay in his arms until the stars burned from the sky and the moon crashed into the Earth. Every moment they'd shared, even the dangerous ones where she couldn't be sure they'd survive, had been worth her soul and more. But it wasn't worth giving up the principles that separated her from those others who'd made demon deals. She'd done it to have Crowley in her life for that single year, not chain him for ten. Love was accepting the one you cared about. It wasn't about trying to turn them into something they weren't and could possibly never be. She loved him precisely as he was. And, maybe, just maybe, some small part of him, hidden away in a corner of his heart, he loved her, too.

"What will happen to me in Hell? Am I going to be in the line?" she asked after a moment's silence.

"Not if you don't want to be."

"And if I don't want to be?" Murron pressed, smiling.

"Then I'll secret you away where nothing can get at you. Maybe I'll put you in a bell jar and look at you from time to time," Crowley teased lightly. Murron chuckled and squeezed him tighter to her. "My little witch, existing for eternity solely for my personal enjoyment."

"Will you be around that long?"

"Forever," he promised, turning his head to kiss her temple. "And ever and ever."

"And ever and ever," Murron echoed, nestling closer to his neck. The silence fell again, as comfortable as all the ones before it. It pleased and comforted her to know he would keep her safe in Hell and she'd be able to be with him for however long the universe lasted. "I like the sound of forever..."

"Good. Because that's how long you'll be mine."

Murron lifted her head to look him in the face. Her expression was earnest when she took a deep breath and said, quite simply, "I love you, Crowley."

"For how long?" was the demon king's response, his gaze warm and inviting.

"Forever," Murron swore, bringing their lips closer together. "And ever and ever."

"And ever and ever," Crowley murmured and kissed her deeply. Above them, the moon rose, casting a gentle silver glow over the water. Though it shimmered like mercury over the crashing waves, creating an ethereal atmosphere, the dancing lovers on the beach took no notice, content to only acknowledge the other and the time they had left.

- end


End file.
